


On Your Best Behaviour

by duplicity



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Conquering Wizarding Britain, Dark Harry Potter, Dark Magic, Dubious Morality, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/M, M/M, Possessive Tom Riddle, Post-Hogwarts, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Powerful Harry Potter, Sane Tom Riddle, Seduction to the Dark Side, Slow Burn, The Golden Trio, how slow remains to be seen, love that for tom and harry, ron and hermione always have harry's back
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-26
Updated: 2020-10-06
Packaged: 2021-02-26 05:14:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 25,519
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21568204
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/duplicity/pseuds/duplicity
Summary: Harry Potter never destroyed the Diary Horcrux in his second year at Hogwarts. Nearly five years later, after the Battle of Hogwarts has concluded, Wizarding Britain has once again turned on the man who had been their saviour twice over.Sixteen-year-old Tom Riddle finds his way back to life after draining Lucius Malfoy of his soul. In the time it takes him to catch up on recent events, he finds himself reluctantly fascinated by the Boy-Who-Lived. When they finally meet, Tom attempts to win Harry over, though he's expecting to have to fight Harry instead.To his great surprise, Harry joins him.Translation in Russian available!
Relationships: Harry Potter/Tom Riddle, Hermione Granger & Harry Potter & Ron Weasley, Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley
Comments: 144
Kudos: 982





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

  * For [waitingondaisies](https://archiveofourown.org/users/waitingondaisies/gifts).



> story title taken from 'savior' by st. vincent.
> 
> this one is dedicated to hannah (waitingondaisies) again because she keeps giving me all these tomarry ideas.
> 
> i always tag graphic violence but i don't feel like i ever end up actually writing it that severely. we'll see i guess. expect darker themes than in my other stories.
> 
> russian translation available [here](https://ficbook.net/readfic/8994475) by [Что-то_среднее](https://ficbook.net/authors/1853626)!

_But I keep you on your best behavior_   
_Honey, I can't be your savior_   
_Love you to the grave and farther_   
_Honey, I am not your martyr_

_Savior, St. Vincent_

* * *

**PROLOGUE**

* * *

**1943**

A young, dark-haired boy knelt down in the middle of the large, cavernous chamber. The position was one of reverence; the boy was facing the tall, proud statue of a man dressed in gratuitous, flowing robes. When the boy spoke, the words that poured forth were not English, but something much older. 

“ _Speak to me, Slytherin, greatest of the Hogwarts four._ ”

There was a hissing noise as the base of the statue shifted in accordance with the command. Then, slowly, the shadowy form that lurked within the statue came creeping out.

The boy raised his hand as Slytherin’s fabled monster drew close, pressing its nose against the boy’s palm as though it was a dog called back to its master.

“You’ve done well,” said the boy, this time in plain tongue. “But now it is time to put you back to sleep.”

The Basilisk, in its incomprehension, merely withdrew slightly, now awaiting its instructions.

Drawing his wand, the boy began to carve large, glowing runes upon the floor. It was difficult, precise work. The runes had to be angled correctly; one false rune could lead to disaster once the spell was cast upon them. The boy continued, sweat forming on his brow as he painstakingly outlined the runes required to put the Basilisk to sleep.

There was no manual on how to train a Basilisk, even one that was bred to obey you. The boy had suffered through much trial and error in his attempts to bring the creature to heel. Things had gone too far. A girl had been killed, and the Board of Governors had threatened to close Hogwarts. New steps had to be taken to prevent the closure of the school; a scapegoat for the blame and a cessation of the Basilisk.

Scowling fiercely, the boy traced the final rune upon the ground of the chamber, then stepped back to examine his handiwork. These runes would put the Basilisk to sleep for approximately fifty years. When it rewoke, it would be prepared to serve its heirs once more.

The boy raised his wand a final time and began to chant a long, complex spell in Latin. The runes began to expand, their glow burning brighter as the spell continued on. The Basilisk lifted its head up, then, examining the proceedings with interest.

Then, at last, the burning runes lifted from the ground, hovering in the air. The boy was panting now, but he held his wand aloft, pouring his magic into keeping the spell alive.

The runes floated over to the Basilisk, which gazed steadily back as the runes touched what it believed to be its nearly impenetrable skin. The magic disappeared as it made contact; one by one the runes vanished against the scaly skin of the serpentine creature.

Slowly, slowly, the great Basilisk lowered its head to the ground, its eyes sliding shut.

The boy, still on his knees, looked exhausted as the spell completed. The Basilisk, now motionless, lay curled upon the floor in front of him. On shaking legs the boy stood, stepping towards the creature. He laid a hand upon the side of its head, as though to bid it farewell.

“Fifty years,” said the boy, now breathless. “By then I will have paved my way to greatness.”

* * *

**1978**

A tall, arrogant man in luxurious wizard’s robes was seated at the head of the table. There was a small, leather book in his hand—the name embossed on it on gold script read ‘Tom Marvolo Riddle’. He gently released it, watching curiously as the book hung in the air before him.

“Lucius,” said the man. “Come here.”

Another man, this one with long, blond hair, hesitantly approached from where he had been waiting by the door. He then knelt down before the arrogant man, awaiting his instructions.

“You and yours have served me faithfully,” the man began. “Therefore I have decided to reward you with a great honour.”

“Yes, my lord?” Lucius’s eyes flickered upwards, just briefly, towards where the leather book now hovered.

“This,” said the man, gesturing to the book, “is an artifact of great importance to me. It contains powerful dark magic within its pages. I would ask you to protect this artifact as you would protect your own heirs. This secret is not to be revealed to anyone, and this item is never to leave your hands.”

“I am… to carry it with me, my lord?”

The man gave his servant an impatient look. “ _Crucio_ ,” he snapped.

Lucius fell to the ground, screaming in pain. The spell held for ten seconds, then twenty seconds. Then the man lifted his wand, and the torture stopped. Lucius lay shivering upon the floor for a brief moment. Then, with huge effort, he silently pulled himself back up to kneel at his lord’s feet.

“You are to carry it at all times,” the man continued, as though nothing unusual had happened. “You will never open it. You will never take a quill to it. It must not leave neither your sight nor your person.”

“Y-yes, my lord.” Lucius bowed his head deeply, fearfully, so low that his forehead was nearly touching the ground.

“This item is _vital_ ,” the self-proclaimed lord continued. “And you will shield it with your life if need be. Is that quite understood, Lucius?”

“Yes, my l-lord. It is an honour t-to serve.” This response was firmer, though Lucius was still shaking with the lingering effects of the Cruciatus.

“Very well.” With a lazy sweep of his hand, the man directed the little book to descend to where his servant knelt. “Do not fail me, Lucius, or there will be grave consequences.”

“I will not fail you,” whispered Lucius. His trembling hand grasped the journal, which he then proceeded to tuck into his robes. “Thank you, my lord.”

The man smiled cruelly, then. Though Lucius, who still had his head bowed low, could not see the smile, a shiver ran down his spine anyways, as though some primal sense inside of him had recognized that he was in imminent danger.

“Don’t worry, Lucius,” crooned the man. “I will not be taking such chances. _Obliviate_.”

Nine complex Compulsion Charms later, the man was satisfied that not only would his servant have no recollection of receiving the diary from him, but he would also be compelled to carry it around on his person, believing it to be an extremely essential possession of his own.

Lucius straightened, looking mildly dazed, and left the room without needing to be dismissed. The diary was still tucked into the inner pocket of his robes, and it would remain insidiously close to him for the next twenty years, even long after the Compulsion Charms had broken.

* * *

**1993**

Fifty years later, a different boy stood tall in the Chamber of Secrets. He, too, had dark, black hair, but he was much younger than his predecessor. This boy also had no parents, and he also was able to speak to snakes.

The sword in the boy’s hand was soaked in blood, and the now-silent Sorting Hat lay at his feet.

Before him, the large, hulking form of the dead Basilisk lay upon the floor—its yellow eyes had been stabbed out by the Phoenix that was now perched upon the boy’s shoulder.

There was a long tear in the boy’s robes where the creature’s fang had stabbed him. But the wound was gone now, because the Phoenix had cried upon it. So the boy no longer felt any pain, only a bone-deep tiredness that reached every atom of his being.

He thought of his friend, Hermione, who was lying frozen in the Hospital Wing. He thought of Ron’s sister, Ginny, who was also frozen and lying next to Hermione. Not to mention Colin Creevy, Penelope Clearwater, Justin Finch-Fletchley, Nearly-Headless Nick, and even Mrs. Norris the cat.

They were safe now. They were all safe.

Hogwarts would not have to close, Hagrid would be proven innocent, and Professor Dumbledore would return to the school as Headmaster. The monster of Slytherin had no master actively controlling it—it was merely a violent, carnivorous thing that had finally woken after fifty years of slumber, determined to complete Salazar’s work for him.

The Phoenix on the boy’s shoulder cawed softly, its voice echoing into the damp air around them. He and the bird were the only two living things in the Chamber.

“It’s over, Fawkes,” said the bespectacled boy. He knew that Ron was waiting for him, with Lockhart, just outside the Chamber door. It was just a matter of leaving this place and finding a professor.

But, looking at the dead body of the giant snake that he had just slain, Harry Potter couldn’t help but feel that he had missed something vitally important.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> expect slower updates for this story until i've got more planned out :) in the meantime, please leave a comment!


	2. Grimmauld Place

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Voldemort might be dead, but that doesn't mean Harry's problems are over. Ron and Hermione do their best to cheer him up, but Harry is mostly content to spend all his time holed up in Grimmauld Place with only Kreacher for company.

**Present Day — 1998**

“You’d think,” Harry said, “that after I defeated Voldemort, they’d stop doing hack jobs on me in the papers.”

Ron and Hermione exchanged a glance, as though debating between themselves who was going to respond this time.

The headline written across the front page of the paper that Harry was holding read: _BOY WHO WON: UNCHECKED, UNTAPPED POWERS?_

“The Daily Prophet’s untrustworthy, Harry,” Hermione said, after a pause. “Most people know this by now. Think of all the horrible Pureblood propaganda it put out during the war! I’m sure no one reads this and takes it seriously.”

Harry cleared his throat and began reading. “‘Harry Potter claims to have killed the wizard known as the Dark Lord Voldemort by using soul magic. While this soul magic claim has not yet been verified by Ministry officials, many fear what other powerful magic Mr. Potter may know. Others ask themselves, is it is wise for one so young to be so unrestricted in the usage of such abilities?

“‘Soul magic, which has been banned from proper society for decades, is commonly known as a marker for dark wizards due to its volatile and dangerous nature. One wonders where Mr. Potter learned such arts, and if the defeat of Voldemort is merely a stepping stone toward a larger, more ominous goal.’” Harry paused for breath, eyeing his two best friends over the top of the newspaper.

“It does sort of make you sound like an aspiring Dark Lord,” Ron admitted. “But no one who knows you is going to believe that. You saved us all from Voldemort, Harry. People are going to be real grateful once it sinks into their skulls properly.”

“Yeah,” said Harry, now staring dully down at the headline. “I sure hope so.”

“Cheer up, mate,” Ron said, patting Harry on the shoulder. “Voldemort’s dead now. Don’t listen to what those stupid journalists have got to say. You should be doing something fun, not sitting around here reading their lousy articles. Come on, Hermione and I have got this dinner reservation, and you should come with us.” Ron stood up, nudging at Hermione as he made his way over to the door.

Harry offered Ron a poor attempt at a smile. “Really, Ron, it’s fine. I don’t need to be cheered up, I’m just a bit annoyed is all. It’s nothing I’m not used to; remember in my fifth year?”

“Harry,” Hermione said, her tone exasperated. “You don’t have to downplay everything that happens to you.”

“I’m not,” Harry said hotly. “Listen, it’s fine. I really couldn’t care less if they all think I’m some nutter now. Voldemort is dead, we killed all the Horcruxes, and that’s what matters. You two go out and have some fun together, really. I don’t need to be coddled.”

“You spend all your time shut up here in Grimmauld Place,” Hermione said. “And don’t tell me you have Kreacher for company, because he’s not the same as a person, Harry.”

“Kreacher’s great,” Harry said defensively.

“Yeah.” Ron snorted. “I’m sure you have real intellectual conversations together.”

Harry sighed. “Just go enjoy your reservation, alright? I told you that I’m not upset, I’m just a bit annoyed. I promise I’m not going to die of misery before I see you both again.”

Kreacher ambled into the dining room just then, and his arms were carrying Ron and Hermione’s coats. He handed both articles of clothing directly to Ron, then stalked off again. Kreacher still had difficulties with looking Hermione in the eye at times, but he was grudgingly polite to her when Harry asked it of him.

Ron and Hermione glanced back at Harry, clearly hesitating.

Harry raised his eyebrows at them. “Go on,” he said, making a ‘shoo’ motion with his hand. “I spent about two years waiting for you two to finally get it together, so I feel like I’m also entitled to tell you both to get lost and go on a date.”

That comment made Hermione smile, which in turn made Harry feel a little better.

“We’ll see you soon,” Hermione promised, and Ron nodded in affirmation.

Once they were gone, Harry looked down at the article again. His friends meant well with their reassurances, but Harry knew better than to be lulled into false hopes. These articles were only the beginning of what was bound to become another smear campaign against him.

Snape’s words from Harry’s first year at Hogwarts echoed loudly in his mind— _clearly fame isn’t everything_.

Harry wished that people would just leave him be. He hadn’t asked to be the Chosen One, and he certainly hadn’t asked to be the one who had to defeat Voldemort. And now, even though he’d finally gone and done it, he was still trapped in the limelight, his reputation forever hinging on whether or not it was _politically convenient_ to support Harry Potter.

It wasn’t as though Harry cared for politics—although he had originally thought that Kingsley would have been a given for Minister of Magic, apparently that had not been the case—but people wanted his opinions on things anyways. The main problem was, it seemed that if Harry didn’t give opinions, then people would simply start to make them up.

Harry had been continually bombarded with questions about this or that, and eventually he’d grown tired of it. This, of course, had only led to more rampant speculation. Speculation had only led to demands for more answers. And all of that had, quite clearly, led to the article he was now holding in his hands.

It should have been easier than this, he thought. It all should have just ended with Voldemort’s demise.

There were still a lot of on-going issues with the reconciliation between the Ministry and the Muggleborn community. People were demanding reparations from a government that did not want to claim any responsibility for its actions. It was Voldemort, the Ministry said, who had controlled everything—nevermind the dozens of Ministry employees who had also been willing Death Eaters, and therefore eager participants in the torture and execution of Muggleborns. There were names and faces in the papers that Harry knew were guiltier than their placating words would suggest.

But Harry had done what he could; he had advocated for the Muggleborns and said that he believed they were owed for the suffering they’d undergone. People had then accused him of seeking compensation. Not outright, but it had most definitely been implied. It was after that that the press had taken to hounding him wherever he went, so Harry had then decided that showing his face in public was more trouble than it was worth, and started to hole himself up in Grimmauld Place.

It wasn’t as though he was the only one getting negative press, either. Ron and Hermione had certainly gotten their own share of slander—although it was a lot less, which Harry was glad about. Ron and his family had lost Fred, and Hermione still had yet to secure the travel documents needed for her to go and restore her parents’ memories. They had enough to deal with without Harry adding his own problems to the list.

* * *

When Kreacher delivered the Daily Prophet the next morning, the headline was not any better. Harry read it quickly, then dumped it into a pile along with the rest of the papers he had collected. A headache was starting to form even though it was only ten in the morning. Harry had trouble sleeping most nights—anxiety from the negative press and lingering nightmares from Voldemort prevented him from catching more than a few hours at a time.

“Thanks Kreacher,” said Harry, as the elf poured him a steaming cup of coffee.

Kreacher bowed low, Regulus' locket bouncing on his chest as he did so, and then scampered off. Grimmauld Place was a lot cleaner lately, Harry had noticed. And Regulus’ room, where Harry had been sleeping, was always spotless.

Harry sipped at his coffee. The caffeine probably wasn’t very good for his sleep habits, but he liked the feeling of being _awake_ too much to give it up. There was a certain safety in being awake, in knowing that he had control over what he did during his waking hours. He didn’t think the desire for sleep was going to overpower his urge to avoid nightmares anytime soon.

Ever since the so-called Battle of Hogwarts, Harry felt as though he was sitting precariously on an edge, about to plummet into the ocean and drown at any given moment. Somehow, though he never actively tried to picture it, he continually found himself imagining the oceanside cliff where Dumbledore had taken him to the find the locket horcrux.

His drifting thoughts concerned him more than his nightmares did, yet he did not feel comfortable enough to broach the topic with Ron and Hermione, not with all of the ‘Dark Lord Potter’ campaigning that was going on. They would probably insist on spending more time with him and coddling him, which was the last thing he wanted.

Admittedly, the isolation was starting to get to him, but Harry didn’t want to subject any of his friends to more bad press if he could help it. Ron and Hermione were one thing; he would be hard pressed to get rid of them, and he would never want to. But everyone else he could shield with whatever protection his absence from their lives could grant them.

Ginny, Neville, and Luna all wrote him regularly, and Harry did his best to respond in a timely manner. It was not as though he had better things to do. Kreacher had already suggested bringing Harry to the Black family library—it was an offer that amused Harry far more than it should have, for he did not doubt that the library was full of books on dark magic.

“Does Master Harry want breakfast?” Kreacher prompted, startling Harry from his thoughts.

“Ah, sure,” Harry said, biting down on the ‘thanks’ that he knew Kreacher would not want to hear. Harry would have probably forgotten to eat at all if it wasn’t for Kreacher.

He watched as the old elf tottered towards the kitchen. Kreacher was Disapparating less than he had used to; Harry had only recently realized that the landings from reappearing were probably hard on Kreacher’s creaky knees. He resolved then to see if there were any healing potions that would be safe for elves to drink. Kreacher deserved to be comfortable if he was holed up in here with Harry all the time.

When Kreacher returned, it was with a plate of diagonally-cut toast, some thick slices of ham, and a bit of scrambled egg.

Harry ate mechanically, though the food did taste very excellent, and polished his plate off in record time. Kreacher, who had been watching closely to make sure Harry finished everything (when had that even started happening?), then snapped up the dirty plate and utensils for washing, floating them away from the table. Harry noted that Kreacher must have also refilled his coffee at some point because the liquid was steaming hot again.

Taking a careful drink of his coffee, Harry sat back in his chair. The headache was still there, although it was less painful now that he’d had the coffee.

Maybe Hermione and Ron were right—he was spending far too much time inside Grimmauld Place and some fresh air would do him some good. But how to go outside without being followed around?

He could use his Invisibility Cloak, but walking around in that seemed to defeat the purpose of soaking up the sunlight.

Harry frowned. There had to be some other way for wizards to go about unnoticed, a method that did not make use of Polyjuice Potion. He was sure there was; he just couldn’t quite recall it. He’d have to ask Hermione the next time he saw her—she would definitely have the answer.

Kreacher came back into the room again, this time with a small stack of letters. “Master Harry has messages from his friends,” said Kreacher. “Would Master like to read them now?”

“Yeah, you can put them on the table,” Harry said.

The letters flew up and onto the table, and then Kreacher walked out again.

Harry eyed the pile. There was a letter from Neville, a letter from Ginny, and then a third letter with no name on it. It would have been more suspicious if Harry was not reassured that his mail had been very thoroughly screened by the wards of Sirius’ ancestral family home. Kreacher had explained to Harry, as best he could, just how the wards worked. Aside from being under the Fidelius, Grimmauld Place was safe from messages of malicious intent being delivered.

Only those who were both included under the Fidelius and innocent of ill intent would be permitted to pass letters through the wards.

So Harry felt relatively safe in opening the unknown letter. Perhaps Luna had simply forgotten to put her name on it? That seemed like the type of thing she could possibly do.

He went and opened the letters from Ginny and Neville first, pushing his curiosity aside for the time being.

Ginny was currently studying to pass her NEWTs at Hogwarts, though Harry knew she had plans to go professional with Quidditch once she graduated. Her letters were upbeat and cheerful, something that Harry was grateful for. It was always nice to hear funny stories Ginny had to share from her classes. She was Quidditch Captain now, too, which meant he also got to hear how Gryffindor was doing in the school rankings.

Neville was also back at Hogwarts, though he was only taking a select few courses. He was still mostly undecided on what he wanted to do following his graduation, but Harry suspected that Neville would likely end up as Hogwarts’ newest Herbology professor, given that Professor Sprout had been dropping hints about retiring soon.

The third letter, as noted, did not have a sender’s address written on it. There was only Harry’s name scrawled in elegant calligraphy across the front. Harry had the nagging feeling that he ought to recognize the handwriting, but he wasn’t sure where.

_Harry J. Potter_. 

Harry had certainly never been able to write his own name that neatly before.

Opening the envelope revealed a plain card with a time, a date, and a location written on it. Flipping the card over, Harry stared at its blank backside for a few minutes, his mind churning. It felt like a trap, like he ought to just throw the entire thing away and forget about it. But there was a part of him that wanted to know just exactly what he had received an invitation to.

The date listed was not for another three weeks. He could let the note simmer until then, probably.

So Harry opened up his mokeskin pouch and dropped the card inside. The pouch swallowed it eagerly.

Gingerly picking up the envelope again, Harry gazed down at the looping cursive of his name. Then he drew his holly wand, aiming it at the envelope and promptly casting _Evanesco_ , vanishing the paper from existence.

* * *

The next time Ron and Hermione came by to visit, Ron was sporting a swelling eye while Hermione fussed over him. The two of them were having a muttered argument as they entered Grimmauld Place.

“What happened?” Harry demanded, his wand already drawn despite the fact that they were standing alone together in his entrance hall.

“Nothing,” Ron said, “it was nothing.”

“That doesn’t look like nothing,” Harry said furiously. “Were you attacked by Death Eaters or something? I swear I’m going to go to the Ministry and—”

“It wasn’t Death Eaters,” Hermione said hastily, and then she bit her lip.

Harry stared between the two of them.

Hermione slowly removed her coat, then Ron’s, and handed both of them off to Kreacher, who had waited silently by the coat rack to receive them.

“Then what happened?”

Ron winced as Hermione gingerly felt around his cheek with her fingertips. “Listen, Harry, it’s not a big deal, alright?”

Hermione was now aiming her wand at Ron’s face as she muttered a healing spell—immediately the swelling seemed to dissipate and fade away, leaving nothing but pink skin behind.

“Someone was going on about those articles on you in the papers,” Hermione said finally. “So Ron punched him in the face.”

Ron winced again. “You could have said it more nicely, Hermione.”

“Then maybe you should have thought it through a little better!” Hermione huffed. “It makes us all look worse, Ron.”

“I know and I’m sorry,” Ron said, sighing. “I know I shouldn’t have done it, but you heard what that bloke was saying about Harry, I couldn’t just let him get away with that—”

Hermione had driven her elbow into Ron’s side, effectively cutting him off in the process.

“Anyways,” Hermione said loudly. “It won’t be happening again, so there’s nothing to worry about.”

Kreacher ambled back into the hallway, then bowed in Harry’s direction. “Kreacher has served tea in the drawing room for Master Harry and his friends.”

So they settled in the drawing room together, and Harry listened to Hermione as she talked about joining the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures after she finished her NEWTs at Hogwarts.

Hermione was attending classes sporadically, and so she was mostly living in her childhood home, saying that it didn’t feel right to leave the place empty while her parents were still stranded in Australia. Harry knew that Ron was worried about her living alone like that, but his parents weren’t about to let him move in with Hermione while they were so young.

Ron plopped into one of the armchairs, making himself at home as Kreacher handed him a cup of tea.

“Hermione,” said Harry, “I wanted to ask you something.”

“Oh?” Hermione leaned forward, interested. It was probably the first time in weeks that Harry had shown an inclination towards something that wasn’t sticking around Grimmauld Place.

“Yeah, I was wondering, is there some kind of way for wizards to walk around undetected?” Harry asked. Then he hastily added, “Not like with the Invisibility Cloak or Polyjuice Potion, but a way someone, maybe a Death Eater, could be hiding themselves in public areas.”

Hermione looked thoughtful for a moment. “There is the Notice-Me-Not Charm. It’s dependent on the power of the caster, and it only works if you’re in a place where people are not expecting you or deliberately looking for you. So, in a public area such as Diagon Alley, a wanted criminal _might_ be able to get by on it without being spotted, so long as there was no one near them who was paying close attention to their surroundings and recognized them.”

That seemed pretty ideal to Harry, who only wanted to be able to walk around Muggle London without being harassed by reporters.

“I think that might be what I’m looking for,” Harry said. “I don’t suppose you have a book on how to do it?”

“Well, not with me at the moment,” said Hermione. ‘“But I can send it to you once I’m back at home—why do you need to know the spell, anyways?”

Harry hadn’t thought that far ahead. “Ah—” he said, fumbling for an excuse.

“You’re not going to go out looking for Death Eaters, are you?” Ron interjected, looking upset.

“No,” said Harry. Then, more defensively, “No, I’m not. Why would I do that?”

Hermione tapped a finger to her chin in an exaggerated manner. “Maybe because you have a saving-people thing?”

“I just want some fresh air,” Harry said testily. “Alright? Or is that too much to ask?”

“Harry,” said Hermione, disapproval in her tone.

Kreacher came back in again, this time with a plate of tarts. The selection was not varied; they were mostly Harry’s favourite, treacle tart, with a few small raspberry jam ones wedged in between.

Ron took two at random and started eating. “I think it’s a great idea,” he said between bites. “Harry can walk around without getting bothered.”

“Avoiding the problem doesn’t make it go away,” Hermione said.

“No, but eventually it has to die down, right? And once things are back to normal, then it won’t matter as much anymore!”

Harry chewed slowly on a treacle tart as they continued to argue back and forth on it. When the debate finally wound down, it seemed as though Ron had succeeded in convincing Hermione that no harm could come of letting Harry wander around London with a Notice-Me-Not Charm plastered to him.

“Besides,” Ron concluded. “Even Harry would have difficulty running into trouble in Muggle London. How many Pureblood swots d’you suppose know how to work the London Underground?”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “Ron, _you_ don’t even know how to get on the London Underground.”

“I’ve been before!” Ron said, offended.

“Yes, when you had someone to tell you where to go,” Hermione said. “But I suppose you’re right in that it can’t be too dangerous. Although,” she added, this time to Harry, “I would feel better if you only went out with one of us.”

“I’m fine, Hermione,” Harry said, relieved that the argument was over. “Voldemort’s dead—nothing’s going to happen to me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> famous last words, harry... famous last words...
> 
> i am actually rather excited to write this story, as it'll have a version of harry that's closer to canon. we'll be having a bit of a slow build up to start with... just for the mystery and the atmosphere and all that.
> 
> enjoy imagining all the things tom's gotten up to in the meantime... all will be explained eventually :)


	3. Notice-Me-Not Charm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry practices the Notice-Me-Not Charm, visits the Leaky Cauldron, and discovers something new with Kreacher's help.

Hermione sent him the book by owl later that afternoon, only a mere hour after she and Ron had departed Grimmauld Place. Harry wouldn’t have been surprised if it had been the first thing she’d done once she’d gotten home.

The Notice-Me-Not Charm seemed straight-forward enough; the main problem was that the spell was non-verbal, and required the caster’s confidence to power its strength. Harry had some practice with non-verbal spells from Hogwarts, and had picked up a lot more out of necessity during their Horcrux hunt. But unfortunately for Harry, even that was not enough to instill confidence in his ability to cast the charm successfully.

But Harry practiced the wand movements diligently in the study room while Kreacher periodically bustled in and out, trying to convince Harry to eat more snacks. Hermione had even written out some helpful notes on the spell for him to look at, so he hoped it would be enough.

“ _Atque Occultatum_ ,” said Harry.

Kreacher had stopped to watch him this time, his tray of tea things hovering just off to the side.

Deciding it was a good a time as any, Harry said, “Kreacher, I’m going to try a new spell on myself. Can you tell me if you notice anything different?” It would be better to embarrass himself in front of the House-Elf rather than any of his friends, or worse yet, to go outside only to find the spell hadn’t worked after all.

“Yes, Kreacher can watch young Master,” said Kreacher, bobbing his head. With a snap of his fingers, the tea tray floated to a nearby table and settled there.

Harry took a deep breath to steady himself. “Confidence,” he said to himself, and then he ran his wand through the movements outlined in Hermione’s book, thinking _Atque Occultatum!_ as hard as he could. There was a sort of tingle in his wand hand, and then there was a familiar wash of magic over his person, just like with the Disillusionment Charm.

Then he stood there, waiting to see if anything had happened.

Kreacher still standing in the doorway, blinked at him.

So Harry said, awkwardly, “Can you still see me?”

“Yes, Master Harry. Kreacher can still see Master.”

Well, so much for mastering it on the first go. Harry sighed inwardly. “Alright, that’s all, then. You can go, if you like.”

Harry sat around for a bit after that, mulling over the spell, debating if he should try casting it again. Then he decided to perhaps give it another go tomorrow, seeing as his failure to cast it would probably be detrimental towards having enough confidence to try it again.

He wandered downstairs into the kitchen, where Kreacher was preparing dinner. The wizened elf was bustling about quite a lot considering he and Harry were the only two people in the house who needed to eat.

Usually Kreacher didn’t like it when he hovered, but Harry planted himself against the counter anyways, watching as the elf worked. It still felt strange to let Kreacher do all the cooking and cleaning for him. Harry tried his best to leave as little mess as possible in the house; he made his own bed in the morning and kept his dirty clothes in the proper hampers. It was a far cry from what he was used to at the Dursleys, but he supposed it was most similar to what he’d experienced at Hogwarts.

Kreacher tottered by in front of Harry, seemingly focused on gathering ingredients for the soup he was making.

Harry was reminded of his plans to research healing options for House-Elves. He really should have asked Hermione when she’d been by, because it was something she likely already knew, but it had slipped his mind.

Kreacher walked by again, this time with a handful of freshly peeled carrots wrapped in a cloth, and Harry was struck with the notion that perhaps House-Elves had their own types of healing methods.

“Kreacher?” asked Harry.

The house-elf startled, and his bundle of carrots dropped onto the floor, where two of them escaped their wrappings and began to roll away.

“ _Noooo_ ,” Kreacher moaned, scrambling to pick up the vegetables. “Kreacher is sorry, Kreacher is—”

Panicking, Harry said in a rush, “No, it’s fine, it’s fine Kreacher, do _not_ punish yourself, it was a mistake, I shouldn’t have startled you like that—”

Kreacher had already dumped the carrots into a colander and begun to rinse them vigorously in the sink. “Kreacher will fix this, Master Harry,” said the elf furiously.

At a loss, Harry stood there a moment longer, just to make sure that Kreacher wasn’t about to hurt himself. Nothing further happened, though, so Harry decided that he was probably better off just waiting in the study until it was time for dinner.

He turned and made his way back upstairs. The tea tray was still there on the table, so Harry cast a non-verbal Water-Heating Charm on the pot, which let out a shrill whistle as it boiled instantly.

As he poured his tea, he went back to thinking about the Notice-Me-Not Charm. He reopened the text that Hermione had given him, glancing once again at the passage that outlined the theory. In this section, Hermione had underlined the words ‘deliberately seeking the caster’.

Harry blinked.

Just then, Kreacher bustled back into the study, his beady eyes narrowing in on Harry.

“Dinner is ready, Master Harry,” said Kreacher.

“Right, th—” Harry cut himself off from automatically thanking Kreacher. “I’ll be down in a few minutes.”

He looked at the passage again, trying to organize his thoughts. There was a theory solidifying in his mind, and he wanted to test it. But how to do so? Harry rubbed at his forehead, at the scar that would never fade.

There was one easy way to find out.

Kreacher would be expecting him downstairs shortly, which ruled out that as an option, so Harry stood up and Disapparated with a crack.

When he reappeared, it was in an alley just outside the Leaky Cauldron. Harry took a moment to sort himself out and quell his nerves. The autumn air was bitingly cold against his skin. He hadn't thought to bring a coat with him. Hoping his jumper would suffice, Harry shook himself of the chill and left the alley he was in, making his way over to the Leaky Cauldron.

It was busy on the street just outside the Leaky. People were either coming here or going to Diagon Alley for a place to eat. Harry’s stomach rumbled, adding its own opinion to the mix. Taking a few more steps and brushing past a few witches gathered on the pavement, Harry reached the door and pushed his way inside.

If Harry had to make an estimate, he would have said that there were approximately fifty or so people in the pub. The mood of the patrons could best be described as ‘drunkenly cheerful’. There was much chatter and general merriment going on. Harry checked his watch—it was half past eight in the evening.

Then he stood there for a moment, feeling like an idiot. How was he supposed to be able to tell if anyone could see him?

At the back of the Leaky, Tom the barman was serving drinks to a crowd of rowdy wizards. Harry made his way over, looking for a seat. But surely a bartender would be _expecting_ patrons? So maybe it still wasn't the proper type of test. Someone got up from the bar, so Harry sat down in the newly vacated space. The noisy wizards continued their demands for more drink while Harry watched them.

He sat there for a while, minding his watch. Five minutes went by, and still no one approached him. Harry hesitantly turned around on his stool and glanced around the bar. Maybe the spell had worked after all.

Deciding not to push his luck any further, Harry stood and made his way back over to the entrance, keeping his head tucked down as he did so. This position, however, led him into an unlucky collision with someone who was coming into the pub.

Whoever it was must have recognized him, because their torso jerked backwards in surprise. Harry paid them no mind, muttering a quick “Sorry,” before he fled the scene, heart beating fast. As soon as he was far enough away from the door, he Apparated back to Grimmauld Place.

An irate Kreacher was waiting for him in the dining room.

“Dinner is _cold_ ,” Kreacher muttered upon seeing Harry. The elf snapped his fingers, causing food to appear on the table. It was steaming, though Harry assumed it was because Kreacher had reheated it for him.

“Sorry,” Harry said, stumbling into the chair Kreacher had pulled out for him. “I didn’t mean to take so long.”

Kreacher shot him a baleful look, and continued to mutter as he trudged away, “Kreacher does not complain, no, not when Master leaves the house without telling Kreacher. Kreacher takes good care of Master Harry, Kreacher keeps Master Harry fed when he forgets to eat. All without complaint, Kreacher does. Master Harry is a most stubborn child, just like Master Regulus.”

Gulping down a spoonful of the soup Kreacher had prepared, Harry pondered over Kreacher’s behaviour. Harry had never thought he’d feel guilty about being rude to Kreacher, of all people, but it was happening nonetheless.

“Kreacher?” he called.

The elf turned around and took a few steps back into the dining room. “Yes, Master Harry?”

“I wanted to ask you something,” Harry began. Then he paused, so as to better organize his thoughts, because he wasn't exactly sure how Kreacher would react to being asked, however abstractedly, about his own well-being.

“Are there any kinds of potions or spells that wizards can use to help… prolong the lives of their House-Elves?” Harry asked. “Or, I don’t know, anything to just help reduce pain?

Kreacher’s form went rather still, though his eyes were fixed on Harry’s face. It made Harry worry that he’d gone too far, that he’d upset Kreacher somehow, only he wasn’t sure how he’d gone and done it, and therefore he was at a loss as to how to apologize for it.

“Master Harry will finish his supper,” said Kreacher, eventually. “And then Master Harry will call upon Kreacher again, but only when he is finished eating.” Then he vanished with a loud crack, leaving Harry with the distinct feeling that if he did not finish eating all the food on his plate, Kreacher would not respond to his call in a very friendly manner.

* * *

Following dinner, Kreacher had directed Harry upstairs to the Black family library. Apprehensive but curious, Harry allowed himself to be shown into what was probably the darkest remaining room in the house. During previous purges of Grimmauld Place, Sirius had kept them all away from the library, saying that only heirs of the house would be allowed past its wards. Harry knew that Sirius had intended to clear it out eventually, but never had either the inclination or the chance to do so…

“Master Harry asks about how to care for House-Elves,” Kreacher said, gesturing at the shelves. “Kreacher brings Master to the Black library for answers.”

The Black library most closely resembled a cross between a shop in Knockturn Alley and the Restricted Section at Hogwarts’ library. The books quivered whenever Harry looked at them—some of the books were even probably looking back at him. There was a thick, heavy feeling in the air, like the atmosphere just before a large storm rolled in.

“Are there books here on the subject?” Harry asked dubiously. Somehow, he doubted that a family with House-Elf heads mounted on the walls actually cared much about its house-elves.

Kreacher snapped his fingers, and a book emerged from one of the shelves, floating over towards Harry. It was a relatively thin book with a raw-looking leather cover. The title read ‘Wizardkind’s Most Faithful’. Harry plucked the book out of the air gingerly, wondering if it was going to bite like the ‘Monster Book of Monsters’ did.

When the book failed to do anything spectacular, Harry flipped it open and noted immediately that most of the pages had writing on them. This only served to further intensify his unease as he was inevitably reminded of Snape’s old potion’s book.

“What is this book, Kreacher?” asked Harry. While he didn’t think Kreacher would willingly give Harry anything that could hurt him, he did know from experience that House-Elves’ ideas of what constituted as ‘safe’ could vary wildly.

“This was Master Regulus’ book,” Kreacher croaked solemnly. “Master Regulus talked of helping Kreacher with this book.”

Admittedly, that was as good of a reason as any to look at it. Harry was fairly sure that Regulus had been genuinely fond of Kreacher, so the book was presumably a decent one.

“Alright,” Harry said finally. “Are there any other books on the topic, while I’m here?”

Kreacher shook his head.

So Harry left the library quickly, trying to disperse the strange chill that the room seemed to have drenched him in. He took ‘Wizardkind’s Most Faithful’ with him into the study and dropped it upon the desk. Kreacher had also come along, likely to make sure that Harry treated Regulus’ possession with respect.

Harry began to read. The book was clearly written decades ago, as a good deal of the language was beyond Harry’s current vocabulary. However, the parts of the book covering spells, potions, and rituals involving House-Elves were very explicit indeed. Harry started to skim over those, so as not to make himself sick. He started to flip through it faster, stopping only whenever he caught sight of Regulus’ familiar handwriting. Regulus was clever, based on his insightful notes that were scribbled into the margins. Harry supposed that you had to be clever to trick Voldemort of all people, so it made sense that Regulus was smart.

Then, finally, Harry reached a page that not only had Regulus’ remarks scrawled all over the place, but also had an additional page of separate notes taped to it.

“Master Regulus’ notes for Kreacher,” said Kreacher, from where he had remained standing by Harry’s elbow.

“This is a dark ritual,” Harry said, his eyes scanning the instructions that Regulus had written out. Regulus had altered the original directions from the book to suit his own agenda, but Harry knew the classification of the ritual would still be considered dark by any type of magical standards.

Kreacher said nothing in response to that. The elf was used to casual applications of dark magic, Harry guessed. So the idea of using a dark ritual on Kreacher was not troublesome to the elf in the slightest.

“I’ll have to see if I can do this,” Harry said at last, not looking Kreacher in the eye.

“Yes, Master Harry. Master Harry will inform Kreacher if he requires any specific ingredients for the ritual.” Then Kreacher tottered away and down the stairs.

Sticking a bookmark in the page so he could find it later on, Harry closed ‘Wizardkind’s Most Faithful’ and put it into the warded drawer of the desk, so that Ron or Hermione would not happen upon it accidentally. He’d hate to see what Hermione would think of the existence of a book like this, let alone its contents.

His other book, the one containing the instructions on casting the Notice-Me-Not Charm, was still sitting open on the desk. Harry reached for it, tugging it back to the center of the desk. It was grounding to reread Hermione's prose, to hear her voice in his head as her words filled his gaze. It helped to clear his mind of all the horrible things he’d just read.

Of course, Harry still wanted to help Kreacher, but he genuinely was not sure he’d be able to bring himself to do the ritual required. It was the sort of thing he could picture Malfoy or Dudley doing and enjoying, which meant that the entire thing did not appeal to Harry much at all. But he would, nevertheless, think it over and give it his best efforts, because the last thing that Harry wanted was for Kreacher to suffer.

There were already times when Harry was reminded of Dobby while watching Kreacher work, and the pain of missing his old friend could only be worsened by the loss of Kreacher, who Harry had also grown rather fond of.

Harry told himself that he would figure it out. Magic was capable of incredible things as well as terrible ones. Surely there would be a way to help Kreacher that did not involve dark magic.

Looking back at the textbook Hermione had lent him, Harry tried to refocus his attention on the passage she had highlighted. He had already read it multiple times, but perhaps another go would reveal something that had not made sense to him before.

His head was starting to hurt again, but he ignored it. He would go to bed earlier tonight, and perhaps that would help ameliorate the situation.

Hermione had written that the charm typically lasted anywhere from one to two hours before it required a recasting, and how long it did last depended on the strength of the caster. Harry looked at his watch again—it was now close to ten in the evening. When had he cast the charm originally? He couldn’t quite remember, but it must have been some time after seven because he had not arrived at the Leaky Cauldron until just past eight. Then he’d come back here, to Grimmauld Place, except Kreacher had been expecting him to show up for dinner, so that wasn’t an accurate measure of when the spell had faded.

Maybe there was a way to test how long a spell lasted, either with a different spell or a potion. Harry tapped his fingers on the desk impatiently. He needed to learn more spells. Which was convenient, he supposed, because he now had all the time in the world to do so.

He was no longer interested in joining the Ministry—not since Kingsley had been replaced as Minister for Magic by a wizard named Darnall Burke. So then there had been no point in returning to Hogwarts to complete his NEWTs, either. The idea of becoming an Auror had always been about defeating Voldemort, for what better place could there have been from which to combat the world’s most feared Dark Lord? Perhaps it had been naive of him, even then, to think that way. Hadn’t Umbridge’s continued avoidance of prison proven that the Ministry would forever be built upon the backs of nepotism and bigotry?

Harry would have paid good money to see the ugly toad rotting in a cell somewhere in Azkaban, all of her happiness drained out of her. Truthfully, he doubted that she had any good memories in her that weren’t tied to the torture of innocents, which was all the more reason to remove the memories from her brain altogether.

The fact that she still existed was a thorn in Harry’s side. The excuse of simply doing as she was told was beyond despicable, let alone that she’d avoided any proper consequences for her actions.

Still, the point was that working for the Ministry was no longer an option that Harry wished to pursue. So he had decided to settle for a nice, quiet life: living off of his inheritance, engaging in charity work, and supporting his friends in their career aspirations. He would have been content if the press had left him alone for the rest of eternity, but that was mostly wishful thinking on his part.

Clearly, in order to have the kind of life he wished to lead, he needed to improve and expand his skills. People already thought he was some kind of power-crazed maniac anyways, so improving his spellwork couldn’t possibly make things any worse than they already were. Harry decided that he would cast the Notice-Me-Not Charm again tomorrow and attempt to visit Diagon Alley to purchase some new spellbooks. If the trip failed, then he would settle for using Flourish and Blotts’ owl-order service instead.

Plan made, Harry shut the book and stretched, leaning back in his chair. Perhaps it was time for bed. He got up and trudged to his room—Regulus’ old room. There was something comforting about the room that Harry couldn’t put his finger on. Maybe it was simply because it was as close to Sirius as Harry could get without the too-familiar feelings of guilt and grief twisting up his insides.

Kreacher had already set Harry’s slippers and nightclothes out on the bed. While the bed looked comfy and inviting, Harry couldn’t bring himself to be truly excited to sleep in it. With sleep came nightmares, and with nightmares came the horrors Voldemort had wrought upon his life.

Ever aware of what Harry was doing, even in sleep, Kreacher had suggested Harry take Dreamless Sleep Potion. But Harry knew from Hermione’s warnings that excessive consumption could lead to permanent insomnia, or worse, narcolepsy. So he’d dutifully avoided ingesting it, and had even gone as far as to order Kreacher to never give him any, just to be safe.

But as the days wore on, a night’s sleep without dreams was looking more and more appealing. Which was not to say that Harry would succumb to the temptation of the potion, but rather he had been considering staying up long enough to make himself pass out into a deep sleep from sheer exhaustion.

Tonight, however, he was feeling brave enough to give an early bedtime a proper shot. So he washed and changed for bed, tucking himself into the blankets and pillows with a weary sort of resignation. As his eyes slid shut, he hoped that tomorrow would bring better success than his nightmares were likely to show him tonight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as far as coincidences go, i'll be the first to admit the one in this chapter may be a little heavy handed, but i just couldn't resist.
> 
> also, kreacher is a good elf, mostly. he's trying his best.
> 
> your comments and speculation are all very welcome :)


	4. Flourish and Blotts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry visits Flourish and Blotts to finds some new books.

When Harry woke the next morning, even his _eyeballs_ were tired. The effort it took to open them, to allow the morning sun to so much as touch the parts of his eyes that were protected by his eyelids, was ridiculous. Resisting the urge to roll over and bury his face into a pillow, Harry forced himself to lie still and stare up at the ceiling.

Once he was reasonably certain that he wasn’t about to fall back asleep, he worked his wand out from where he’d left it under his pillow and cast the Tempus Charm. It was half past six in the morning. Groaning, Harry sat up, stretching his arms and back.

Kreacher came into the room then, bearing a cup of hot water which he set upon the bedside table for Harry.

“Good morning,” Harry said, stifling a yawn.

“Would Master like his copy of the Daily Prophet?”

Harry thought about it. Perhaps it would be best to save the paper for after he returned from Diagon Alley. That way he could live in blissful ignorance for a few more hours.

“I’ll read it once I’m back,” Harry said. Then he added, “I’ll be headed to Diagon Alley today, Kreacher.”

Kreacher eyed Harry speculatively. “Will Master Harry be requiring lunch?”

“Er, I don’t think so. I’ll just get something to eat while I’m there.”

“Very well,” Kreacher said plaintively. Then he stalked over to Harry’s wardrobe, where he began to pull out clothes for Harry to wear.

Harry stood up next to the bed, watching for a moment as Kreacher busied himself with Harry’s robes and trousers. Had it been that long since Harry had left the house properly? He couldn’t quite remember. After the reconstruction at Hogwarts had finished, Harry had moved directly into Grimmauld Place permanently, and he’d been here at Grimmauld when the rumours and the press slander had started, too.

It had only taken a few months before people began to call him dangerous and unhinged, just like they had in his fifth year. Admittedly, Harry thought that ‘dangerous’ was likely accurate. Being called ‘unhinged’, however, still rankled.

Hermione had theorized that during his battle against Voldemort, Voldemort’s death and the subsequent removal of the Horcrux in Harry’s scar had resulted in an ancient transfer of magical power. She had called it a sort of ‘magical right of conquest’, saying it was similar to how Muggles claimed spoils of war.

So for whatever reason, even without the use of the Elder Wand, all of Harry’s magic was more powerful than usual. And that had been fine—it had been useful, even, when they’d been putting Hogwarts back together following the destruction that Voldemort and his Death Eaters had wrought upon it. It was more the aftermath of utilizing such power that had resulted in negative consequences.

Kreacher shook a pair of trousers in Harry’s field of vision, pulling him out of his thoughts. Harry got dressed, brushed his teeth, and half-heartedly ran a comb through his hair. 

Pulling out his holly wand, Harry turned it over in his hand a few times. He hadn’t noticed any differences since it had been repaired with the Elder Wand; it felt as connected to Harry’s magic as it ever had. 

“Does Master wish for tea or coffee before he leaves?” Kreacher asked. 

“No,” Harry said, once again biting down on his reflex to thank Kreacher. “I’ll be fine until I get back.” 

Kreacher gave Harry a strange look, then left the room. Realizing he didn’t have any more reason to stand around in his bedroom, Harry followed. Kreacher was holding a thick black cloak out for Harry to put on. 

“This isn’t mine,” Harry said, looking at it. “Where’d you get this from, Kreacher?” He had thought most of the expensive belongings at Grimmauld Place had either been tossed out or stolen by Mundungus. 

“This was Master Sirius’,” Kreacher said slowly. He did not look pleased to be saying Sirius’ name, but he gave the cloak he was holding another shake. “Cloak will help keep Master Harry safe.” 

Harry eyed it uneasily, looking for the catch. He’d learned to expect weird things from wizards; experience had taught him to ask questions first. “What does it do, exactly?”

“Master Sirius’ cloak has charms and enchantments,” Kreacher said. “It can only be used by true heirs of House Black.”

Harry couldn’t help but think that Kreacher was still trying to mold him into a ‘proper’ Pureblood heir, only he was doing it in such a way that Harry was hard pressed to say no to. If the cloak had belonged to Sirius, then it was something that Harry wanted.

Just to be sure, Harry withdrew his wand and gave the cloak a tap. “ _Specialis Revelio_.”

The cloak glowed white for a moment, signifying its status as an item free of malicious charms or spells, then shimmered like a Shield Charm usually did when it had been hit. Perhaps this cloak was similar to the hats and cloaks that Fred and George had made.

Reassured, Harry took the cloak and put it on. The material felt more expensive than his typical cloaks and robes did, but it was very comfortable. “This cloak isn’t a dark artifact or something, is it?” Harry asked suspiciously. Just because it had belonged to Sirius, that didn’t mean it was perfectly clean. Harry was well aware that if it had been left in this house, either of Sirius’ parents could have perhaps tampered with it at some point.

Kreacher shook his head.

“Do you know what kinds of spells are on it?”

Kreacher produced a smile full of sharp, yellowed teeth. “Kreacher knows books on such spells—”

“Are in the Black library,” Harry finished the sentence, his voice heavy.

Harry reached down and felt the hem of the cloak with his hand. There didn’t seem to be any residue of dark magic on it. In fact, Harry could even see Sirius’ initials, S. B., embroidered underneath the Black family crest.

“This cloak won’t do anything to me?” Harry asked, just to be sure.

Kreacher shook his head. Harry couldn’t quite think of any more reasons not to wear it, but it still did not seem like a good idea. “I think,” Harry said, “I’ll wear it next time I go out. I don’t want to draw attention to myself today, and I’d feel more comfortable in my own clothes.”

“Very well,” Kreacher said. He took the cloak back as Harry handed it to him. The elf didn’t look too offended at the refusal, so hopefully Harry’s agreement to wear it next time had soothed Kreacher’s delicate sensibilities for now.

Holding out his wand once more, Harry cast the Notice-Me-Not Charm. Then he checked his mokeskin pouch to make sure that his Invisibility Cloak was still inside, just in case. Reassured that he had a contingency plan in case things went horribly wrong, Harry closed his eyes and turned on the spot.

* * *

Harry landed in an alley just off the left of the North Side of Diagon Alley. As it was a bit early, it seemed that only some of the shops were open. Walking out, Harry located the closest tea shop that was open and headed towards it.

There was the tinkle of a bell as Harry passed through the doorway. The inside of the shop was tastefully decorated, nothing at all like Madam Puddifoot’s in Hogsmeade. The atmosphere of the shop was very rustic and homey, which Harry liked.

A witch was in the middle of magically floating a large tray of pastries into the glass display on the counter as Harry stepped up to the register. He tapped the little bell on the countertop to get her attention, then felt a bit bad as she noticeably jumped.

When her eyes landed on his face, she gasped. Harry was glad she’d put the tray down because she probably would have dropped it in her shock.

“You’re Harry Potter,” she said.

Harry grimaced.

“Just a regular coffee, please,” he told her. “Lots of sugar and cream.” Anything to drown out the bitter taste of the coffee beans. He had enough of bitterness going on in his head, he didn’t need the flavour of it on his tongue, too.

After paying for and receiving his drink, Harry went to sit down in the corner of the little tea shop. He could see the witch behind the counter on his right, and he also had a clear view of the large glass pane that looked out at the alley.

Taking a sip of his frothy, sugary caffeine, Harry watched the shop owner as she worked. Every so often she would glance in Harry’s direction.

Harry hoped she would forget about him soon. It was uncomfortable to be gawked at like a zoo exhibit.

After some minutes passed, another patron finally came into the shop. The bell above the door chimed for the second time, causing the witch at the counter to look up again. She took the wizard’s order, then set about making it. Once it was done, she handed over the drink, and the man left the shop without so much as a glance in Harry’s direction.

Harry waited to see if the witch would look back over at his corner, but she didn’t, so Harry took his time in finishing off his coffee. Checking his watch, he wondered if Flourish and Blotts would now be open. Perhaps he ought to wait until more people came into this tea shop.

So Harry sat around some more, idly wishing he’d thought to bring something with him to read. Eventually, though, more people started to drift into the shop, and Harry thought it was probably safe to leave it without attracting too much attention.

Standing, Harry left his empty cup and saucer on the table and made his way over to the door.

Diagon Alley was fully awake now. There were peddlers on the streets with their stalls, and groups of people walking up and down the North Side as they went about their business. Harry stuffed his hands into his robe pockets and made his way over to Flourish and Blotts.

* * *

The Alley’s largest bookshop wasn’t very busy, likely because people usually didn’t shop for books first thing in the morning. Harry pulled the door to Flourish and Blotts open. There was no bell on this door, thankfully, which meant that Harry could probably get away with a bit of browsing before he was interrupted by a salesperson.

Making note of the section headings posted above the various bookshelves, Harry tried to decide what to look at first. Books had always been Hermione’s area of expertise, but if he was being honest with himself, he and Ron had rather taken advantage of Hermione’s encyclopedic knowledge of everything. It wouldn’t hurt for Harry to do some of his own research for once. He had the time for it, and Hermione probably had better things to do than to mind Harry’s little side projects.

Walking over to the section labelled for books on healing, Harry started to look at the book titles. Some of them seemed to be very basic; the kinds of household charms that Mrs. Weasley probably knew how to cast for minor scrapes and hurts that children frequently got in a rowdy home.

There were other books that were on specific kinds of healing, like treatments for dragon pox or cures for plant-induced injuries. Harry skimmed past those subsections, feeling a bit lost as he continued on. He should have been expecting a broad selection. Something as complex as healing was bound to contain dozens of books on all kinds of minor topics.

Eventually, Harry was able to narrow his focus down to a smaller subsection dedicated to the healing of magical creatures. This time, Harry did end up finding something similar to the ‘Monster Book of Monsters’. There were furred books, scaled books, and even one very strange book with a white leather cover that shook violently when Harry looked at it. Continuing down the row of titles, Harry settled upon a few books that looked both suitably promising and visually non-threatening, pulling them off the shelf.

“Did you need a basket?”

Harry looked up to see the placid face of a shop employee—a short young woman with a pixie cut.

“Erm, thanks.” Harry took the basket from her, dropping his selections into it.

The witch walked away without a second glance. Harry supposed that most hired employees in a shop probably didn’t want to see customers to begin with, so it made sense that she hadn’t recognized him.

Books on healing procured, Harry straightened up and angled his head, searching for the section on defensive magic. He didn’t see it anywhere here, meaning it was probably on the second level. Harry made his way over to the rickety, curved staircase that led upstairs.

The upper floor of Flourish and Blotts was perfectly deserted, much to Harry’s delight. He could take as much time as he wanted without worrying about interruptions. Setting his basket down upon on a little table that was sat next to a comfy-looking armchair, Harry started a slow walkabout so he could map out all the sections.

In the past, he’d only come to Flourish and Blotts, given his booklist to a harried shop worker, and left with his purchases. Now, though, Harry planned to take a proper amount of time to look over the vast selection of available books. He would learn the things that he would have learned in his seventh year at Hogwarts. He would learn things that he might have learned if he’d decided to join the Aurors as he’d originally planned. There was nothing stopping him from improving himself on his own.

There was the section on defensive magic, as expected, but there were also sections on warding, potions, and wizarding history. History had never appealed to Harry at Hogwarts, but Binns had been the driest, dullest professor in the entire school, so perhaps he ought to give the subject another try.

Harry pulled out books here and there, reading the back covers and opening them up to their table of contents. Some of the books written by relations of Pureblood families, like the Notts and the Lestranges, he avoided looking at. No matter what information they contained, he didn’t think he could bring himself to trust them.

In the end, Harry found himself with maybe two dozen books total on a number of different subjects. He hadn’t been looking at the prices when he’d picked them out, but he thought he probably had enough money on him to cover them. If not, he could always call Kreacher up to bring him some.

Stacking all his books neatly into the basket, Harry picked it up by the handle and carried it back down to the ground floor. Halfway down the steps he paused to check his watch. It had been nearly two hours since he’d originally left Grimmauld. Hopefully the charm was holding enough for him to leave the shop and Apparate home.

Approaching the empty counter, Harry placed his basket down and looked around for the shop witch.

He waited a few moments, but she did not miraculously reappear, so Harry was forced to tap at the bell on the counter. There was a muffled shout from a backroom behind the counter, and then the witch from before reappeared.

This time when she looked at Harry, her brows rose. But, thankfully, she didn’t comment as she rang up his purchases and wrapped them in paper.

Harry counted out the appropriate amount of galleons, sickles, and knuts from his pouch, handing them over. The witch passed him his package, which had been magically charmed to a lighter weight, and wished him a good day.

Eager to leave, Harry made his way over to the exit—

—and was greeted with the familiar sight of reporters just as he stepped outside the door. 

For one stupid moment, Harry stood there, dazed by the flash of cameras and made deaf by the sounds of shouting. His next thought was to wonder why they had waited until he’d left the shop to accost him, but then he realized that perhaps the insides of the shops were considered private property. Or maybe they hadn’t been sure if he was inside the shop or not.

Shoving all that aside for now, Harry turned on the spot, intending to return to Grimmauld Place.

* * *

As Kreacher took his cloak and coat, Harry thought back to the shop girl at Flourish and Blotts. Had she noticed him that first time and gone to tip off the media? It wouldn’t have been the first time such a thing had happened, but Harry hadn’t thought that she’d recognized him.

Walking into the dining room with his package of books, Harry sat down mechanically at the table.

“Kreacher?” he asked.

“Yes, Master Harry?”

“Could you get me a glass of orange juice?” Harry’s throat felt suddenly dry; all he could taste now was the bitter remains of his morning coffee.

Kreacher disappeared into the kitchen as Harry stared at his carefully wrapped stack of books.

By the time Kreacher returned, glass of juice in hand, Harry felt a bit more like a person again, and the weird spots from the flashing cameras had faded from his vision. It was worse with glasses because the lenses always caught the glare at weird angles, meaning you could never see his eyes properly in photographs, even magical ones.

Harry took a long sip of his juice. The cold liquid was like a balm on his throat and his nerves.

He’d been too overconfident in going out, clearly. One simple spell wasn’t enough to protect him if he was going to go anywhere in the magical community. He would be safer in Muggle areas where no one would recognize him. And he would take additional precautions, like maybe wearing the cloak Kreacher had tried to give him. He could send the cloak to McGonagall and see what she thought about it. That seemed like an infinitely sensible thing for him to do, like the sort of thing Hermione would tell him he ought to do.

Tugging at the twine that was holding his package together, Harry asked Kreacher to bring him a quill and some parchment so he could get down to work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> long time no see! i had been focusing on my other major work, but i found time and energy to revisit this one recently.
> 
> continue to expect sort of slow updates for this. i'm still writing it, but it's not a current priority. thank you for reading!! :)


	5. The Muggleborn Registration

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fed up with the way things are in the Ministry, Harry decides to do something about it. After getting Hermione's advice on his plan, Harry goes to visit Luna, where he has an interesting conversation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i had this chapter sitting around for a while because i couldn't figure out what i didn't like about it. then i reread it last night, and it was like all the blockage had just magically melted away? so here, have a new chapter! enjoy!

Later that evening, Harry remembered that he had yet to read the day’s edition of the Daily Prophet. Shoving aside his stack of notes for now, Harry looked up at the clock on the wall. It was now nearly six in the evening. Time had slipped through his fingers without him even realizing.

“Kreacher?” Harry asked to the empty air.

Kreacher popped into existence next to him. “Yes, Master?”

“Could you bring me today’s copy of the Prophet?”

Kreacher snapped his fingers. After a second, the paper materialized upon the table. “Does Master Harry need anything else?”

“No, that’s all.”

“Dinner will be served shortly.” Kreacher eyed the mess on the table, then ambled off in the direction of the kitchen.

Embarrassed, Harry tried to pile his things a bit more neatly. Then his eye caught on the headline of the Prophet, and he nearly knocked his entire heap of books over.

  
  


_RETURN OF THE MUGGLE-BORN REGISTRATION_

  
  


Harry grabbed the paper up and started reading, a feeling of dread building in his stomach as he skimmed through the article. The Ministry wasn’t advocating for the same process as before, obviously, but according to the article, the registration of Muggleborns would help the Ministry protect them from discrimination. Still, the fact remained that the registration was _mandatory_ , that there was no way out of it, especially for new students that wanted to attend Hogwarts.

The sad thing was that Harry had already been expecting this to happen. Their new Minister had been touting traditionalist ideals for some time now, so it shouldn’t have been such a surprise. But _seeing_ it happen was still somehow very jarring. Harry hadn’t really thought it would happen so soon, to be honest. He’d thought there would be time for people to recover, time for them to work on initiating proper change.

Truthfully, Harry was very worried about the treatment of Muggleborns. Voldemort’s temporary reign had validated many terrible people in their bigoted ways, people who now felt a lot safer in voicing their disgusting opinions because of the fear-mongering climate Voldemort had encouraged.

Even if the Prophet continued to slander him, Harry felt it was his duty to at least try to do something. It wasn’t in his nature to stand by when he could be out there making things happen.

It didn’t matter if his friends thought he was being idiotically selfless; Harry still wanted to help. A continuation of the Muggleborn Registration, under any guise, would only spell disaster. Any number of Death Eaters who were still at large could get access to that information with the simple use of the Imperius, and then magical Britain would be thrown back to the horror of Voldemort’s rule.

Newly-elected Minister Burke had led his campaign with promises to return magical Britain to its old ways, with promises that they would go back to a time of peace and prosperity, a time when magic and Muggle had been separate. Most people had been only too glad to hear something familiar; Kingsley’s promises of reform and change had fallen on deaf ears. People coming out of a war wanted stability, familiarity. Even if that meant they were submitting to an old, decrepit wizard who still held the belief that Muggles were lesser creatures.

Harry didn’t understand it. He could see their flawed reasoning, but he didn’t _get_ it. Why couldn’t people exercise some critical thinking and see that they were putting their faith in the wrong person all over again? It was frustrating for Harry to be able to see the situation so clearly and still fail to convince other people of his point of view.

Countless times Harry had tried to give his opinion—before the press had started up their campaign against him again, he’d written letters (with Hermione’s help) to the Prophet. Some of his letters had been published purely because they were tied to his name. He’d even gotten some positive responses, but that was all he’d gotten: responses. No one was willing to actually do anything or stick their neck out to make a difference.

Harry often felt like it was just him and his friends against an ever-rising tide of antipathy and antagonism. A losing battle no matter what.

It was getting harder and harder to remember why he ought to be keeping his temper in check. What Harry really wanted to do was write a really scathing letter that just utterly destroyed all of the arguments people tried to use against him.

People who called him selfish? How about the time he’d tried to die at Voldemort’s hand so that everyone could be free?

People who said he was dark? The Patronus Charm was one of the purest light spells there was, and he’d cast it _repeatedly_.

People who thought he was power-hungry? He had quite literally turned down an offer to join the Ministry’s ranks, though he supposed people might say he was simply unsatisfied with the position of Junior Auror that they had offered him.

Harry was tired of being stereotyped, of having his reputation thrown around for the sake of other people getting a leg up on him. Fighting Voldemort had swallowed up his entire youth; his childhood to his teenage years, all of it had been lost to the war.

Never in his life had Harry asked to be lauded as a saviour, to bear the responsibility of being a hero. But he’d done it because it had been the right thing to do. He’d done it because even if there hadn’t been a prophecy he would have done whatever necessary to keep his friends and chosen family safe.

Harry would have given his life if it meant that the people he cared about could enjoy the rest of their days without fear of danger or retribution.

It was a choice he would still make now, if there was the option to do it.

Harry looked back down at the article. The mere idea of Hermione having to submit herself for inspection to a Ministry that had once wanted her dead made him sick to his stomach. He couldn’t allow it. He had to _do_ something about it.

Kreacher came back into the room with Harry’s dinner. The smell of roast lamb and some steamed vegetables wafted towards Harry, and Harry was suddenly reminded that he’d forgotten to eat lunch at Diagon Alley, even though he’d told Kreacher he would.

Guiltily shoving the newspaper aside, Harry pulled out a fresh sheet of parchment. He would eat while he wrote. He wanted to get his words down on the page while he was still coherently angry enough to convey his thoughts properly.

Quill in hand, Harry started a list of all the points that he wanted to address, starting with what had happened on the day of the Battle of Hogwarts. He would talk about what had happened in his duel with Voldemort, leaving out as much about the Horcruxes as possible.

Once he explained himself, people would read it and then they would _have_ to understand. Even though Harry didn’t particularly want to relive that day, perhaps the act of writing it down could also help give him some closure.

With his free hand, Harry absently stabbed at a piece of carrot, stuffed it into his mouth, and started chewing. If he didn’t eat, Kreacher would give him a look full of undisguised disappointment, and Harry wanted to avoid that if he could. Eating was important; he wouldn’t be able to focus properly on what he wanted to say if he was hungry.

After summarizing the Battle of Hogwarts, Harry would move on to discussing what Hermione had told him about the magical right of conquest stuff. He wasn’t some power-crazed maniac, he was just constantly being saddled with things he hadn’t asked for.

Although, maybe writing about how he’d absorbed some of Voldemort’s magical power wasn’t the best idea he’d ever had. Frowning, Harry cut himself a piece of lamb to eat. Perhaps he could outline that bit, and then leave it off later if he wanted to.

Harry continued writing throughout his meal. When he was finally finished—meal and letter both—he sat back in his chair. He felt drained. The act of putting his thoughts onto a page had been cathartic in a way, but reliving his experiences was far from comfortable.

Looking over the paragraphs he’d written, Harry decided that he would send this off for Hermione to read, and then he would go visit Luna and see about publishing it.

* * *

The next day, Hermione’s response came back mid-afternoon. She had approved. Somewhat. She had sent back Harry’s roll of parchment with red marks all over it. Harry had taken this in stride; years of Hermione helping him with his classwork had desensitized him from her criticisms, which were almost always valid and intended to be helpful.

After going through and making most of the corrections she’d suggested, Harry gave his letter a final read through. He felt as though he’d covered all the points he wanted to make, and he had written everything in such a way that everyone ought to be able to understand his point of view.

Hermione had also advised him to leave out the paragraph on magical conquest, stating that it would likely detract from the other points he was trying to emphasize. The focus ought to be on Voldemort: what he had done to the people of magical Britain, and what would happen if they continued down the path that he had started.

Though Harry was nervous about publishing his writing, he believed this was the right thing to do. He had a duty to all the people who looked up to him. He had to protect them if he could. If that meant putting himself out there to prove a point, he would do it.

Gathering his things up, Harry tucked everything into a folder, which he placed into his rucksack. He would go and see Luna today. Waiting around did no one any good, and the longer he sat on this, the more likely he was to chicken out of it.

Harry told Kreacher he would be home in time for dinner, then Apparated directly to Ottery St. Catchpole. He had only been to Luna’s house a few times since the war. Once to help rebuild it, and a couple of times after that to visit Luna for tea.

Luna had chosen to forgo the rest of her Hogwarts education in favour of running the Quibbler. Her father, Xenophilius, had not been quite the same since his run-in with the Death Eaters. Quiet and subdued, he made for poor company, but Luna was determined to see her father’s return to the vibrant, quirky wizard he’d once been.

When Ottery St. Catchpole swirled into focus, Harry took a moment to gain his bearings, then pulled the Cloak of Invisibility on. He had no desire to be hounded by anyone today. He was here for two reasons: to see Luna and check in on her, and to hopefully have his letter published in the Quibbler.

Luna’s house was a short distance away from where he’d landed. Harry could see the shape of the giant chess rook a bit in the distance. Harry took his time approaching the fence, which had been broken even before the entire house had gotten blown apart, but now the fence was whole, and so Harry had to unlatch the gate in order to pass through.

Harry traversed the zig-zag path that led to the front door, his eyes wandering over the various oddities that were growing in the Lovegood’s garden. A tiny bush of Dirigible plums sat just under the windowsill next to the door.

Once he reached the door, Harry knocked twice and waited. The door swung open not a second later, revealing Luna, who was wearing a large smile on her face. She was wearing a pale blue dress patterned with moving clouds, and her hair was pulled up into large, stiff curls all over her head.

“Hello, Harry,” said Luna. “I thought you might be coming by soon.” She took a step back from the door; Harry noticed she was barefoot.

“Oh?” Harry said. “What made you think that?”

They walked into the kitchen. A pot of something was bubbling on the stove top. A quick glance revealed a dark purple mixture that periodically hiccuped as they continued into the living room. Luna settled down into a rickety wooden chair, and so Harry also sat down, making sure to check that the seat was clear of things before he did so.

“Just a feeling. Your letters seemed to be leading up to it.”

Harry tried to recall what he’d written in his last letter to Luna. It had been maybe two weeks ago, which was before the entire mess with the strange invitation and the Notice-Me-Not Charm. “Right. I hope you don’t mind that I dropped by unannounced.” He hadn’t thought Luna would mind, and as she hadn’t replied to his last letter, he’d simply assumed she was too busy to talk to him.

“Oh no, it’s perfectly fine. Did you want some tea?”

“I’m fine, thanks. How’s your dad doing?”

Luna smiled. “Better than before. He’s taking a nap right now, but I think he might feel up to writing some articles soon. There’s a new variant on the Gurdyroot that I’ve been trying to tempt him with.”

“That’s really great,” Harry said. “I’m glad that he’s doing better.”

Luna only hummed in response. They sat there a moment, with Harry wondering if he ought to bring up the other reason for his visit, when the pot from the kitchen suddenly emitted a loud burping sound.

“Excuse me,” Luna said, “I should go check on that.”

“You go do that,” Harry agreed readily. “Erm, what is it, exactly?”

“Just a little experiment,” Luna said, standing up and drifting towards the kitchen.

That statement sounded a little worrisome, but Harry wanted to believe that Luna knew what she was doing. “It’s safe, right?”

“Of course it is,” Luna called back. Harry could hear the mixture hiccuping again, the noises now pitched like a baby’s squeal.

A minute passed and the sounds stopped. Luna returned to the living room, a plate of biscuits and two glasses of milk resting upon a tray in her arms. “Have something to eat, Harry.”

“Thanks.” Harry picked up a biscuit, examining it. The biscuit looked perfectly normal, so he took a hesitant bite. It tasted buttery, which was nice.

“Have you given any more thought as to what you want to do?” Luna asked.

That brought Harry up short. “I don’t really know,” Harry said. “I mean, I want to help people, but I’m not really sure how to do that when the Ministry is… the way that it is, you know? I guess I always thought that after the war, all the problems would just go away. But the problem it’s—it’s bigger than just Voldemort.”

“I think everyone expected you to become an Auror,” Luna said mildly. “But that’s not what you really wanted to do, was it?”

It was surprising to hear such a truthful statement about himself coming from someone else. Harry hadn’t expected to be read quite so thoroughly. “You’re right, honestly,” Harry said. “But I don’t know what I want, Luna. Being an Auror just felt like the proper thing to do at the time. At least, better than any of the other options. Plus,” he added, a smile curling his lips, “it really ticked off Umbridge.”

“You like to help people,” Luna said, nodding. “And you’re just not sure what the best way to do that is.”

“Actually,” Harry said, shifting his rucksack around, “there is something I wanted your help with, if that’s okay. Have you read the Daily Prophet lately? They’re bringing back the Muggleborn Registration.”

“I have.” Luna’s usual cheerful expression fell away; it was replaced by a somber, more serious one.

Harry pulled out his letter and handed it over to her. “I do want to do something about it,” he told her. “I was wondering if you’d be alright with publishing this for me.”

Luna took the parchment from him and began scanning the first page. “I trust you, Harry,” she said. “Of course I will.”

Harry drank his milk and helped himself to another biscuit while he waited for her to finish reading.

When she was done, she set the stack of papers on the table next to her, retrieving her wand. With a gentle tap of the tip of her wand, the pile of papers duplicated. She gathered up the papers and handed a copy back over to Harry. “I think it’s very brave,” she said. “What you’re doing. You don’t owe anyone any explanations, but you’re doing it anyways.”

Harry was relieved to hear her support. “Thanks, Luna.”

Luna’s eyes were still very serious as she pulled her own copy back onto her lap. “I will publish this for you if you want me to, Harry. But I only wonder if it will give you the results you want.”

“What do you mean?” Harry asked.

“I mean,” Luna said, “change is in the air, can you feel it? Magical Britain is about to shift into a new era. Things will only change for the better if the right person is leading us. You’re one of the few who are willing to take a stand for what is right, Harry, but I don’t think enough people are willing to follow you. They’re too fixated on the past, too afraid to move into the future.”

The pessimism felt harsher coming from Luna. Luna had always been willing to see the best in any situation, and now she was telling him that she thought his efforts would lead nowhere.

“So you don’t think I should do it?” he asked.

“What I think is irrelevant,” Luna said. “You have to do what’s right for you, regardless of what anyone else thinks. Your message is important; it comes from a place of goodness. And that is why people should hear it, even if they don’t understand why they need to.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yes yes this story is still updating at a slow pace :) things are getting... shall we say... spicy? harry is getting worked up over how bad things are, things are happening, stuff will be getting more exciting :D
> 
> thanks for reading, please feel free to drop a comment!


	6. Forest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Following his visit with Luna, Harry's mental state takes a paranoid turn. Once his article is published, Harry finds himself leaving the confines of Grimmauld Place for some familiar territory.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> previously:
> 
> After learning about the return of the Muggleborn Registration, Harry drafts an article to address many of the problems he has with the current magical government. Following the article's completion, Harry visits Luna and asks her to print his article in the Quibbler. Luna warns him that, despite its importance, his message may fall upon deaf ears.

Harry left the Lovegood house in a haze. Luna’s words had given him more worries than reassurances.

The sun had begun to set a couple of hours ago, and so the skies were dark but not dim. Harry was able to wander away from the house and down the plain path without any trouble. He was far from the main village, and other people were likely home having dinner. Eating dinner, which was what Harry ought to have been doing.

Harry strolled aimlessly, paranoid but also not, unsure what to expect. He had good reason to be cautious, but he couldn’t help but hate himself each time he jumped, whirling around, expecting to be attacked. It was only once he was a distance away from Luna’s house that he even remembered to pull his Cloak on.

It wasn’t that Harry _wanted_ to go looking for trouble—rather, it was the fact that if something _did_ happen, at least then he would be doing something productive. Taking down a Death Eater that had eluded capture, or something to ease his restlessness and recklessness. If a Death Eater did come after him, then maybe people would stop gawking at him in public like he was about to snap at any given moment.

And there had to be Death Eaters looking for Harry Potter. Voldemort’s most devoted had gone after Neville’s parents following the end of the first war, and so Harry knew that, someday, there would be someone coming for him. Fanaticism driven to desperation. Desperation driven by fear and, perhaps, grief. Though Harry could not imagine who, other than Bellatrix Lestrange, would ever mourn Voldemort.

A sharp crack to his left tore his attention away from his thoughts. Harry’s wand, already in his hand, sparked violently in response to the adrenaline that had suddenly flooded his body. But there were only the cornfields, the ponds, the trees. He was invisible. It was unlikely anyone was even around.

Now thoroughly unnerved, Harry decided against indulging his impulse to hang about. It was now near the hour when Kreacher would be expecting him home for supper; failing to appear would incite worry, or worse, a moody, irate Kreacher for at least a week.

Harry did feel he owed the elf a lot. Kreacher made sure Harry ate and slept with semi-regularity, and his presence also meant Harry felt obligated to at least behave like a regular human person when there wasn’t anyone else around. Once this business with the article was sorted, he would have to turn serious attention to the notes Regulus had left behind.

But for now, Harry doubted he’d be able to handle thinking about such dark topics without worsening his unstable mood.

When Harry did arrive back home, Kreacher was waiting with a steak and kidney pie, and so Harry allowed the good food and unobtrusive company to cheer him, and set the article out of his mind for the time being. To brood over possible failure helped no one. He had a duty to keep his head above the water, so to speak, and he would hold himself to it.

* * *

In the days following his visit with Luna, Harry returned to his self-directed studies at Grimmauld Place, whiling the hours away with his books. It was as good a distraction as any, especially as he began to grow a tad anxious over the article he’d written.

To help alleviate his restlessness, Harry began to take short walks around the neighbourhood. He had already sent the cloak that Kreacher had said belonged to Sirius off to McGonagall, and he hoped to get a response from her soon. In the meantime, he made do with his Invisibility Cloak, though it was a bit difficult to walk around underneath it comfortably, especially in broad daylight. 

The heavy weight of the Cloak was also making him jumpy. Harry couldn’t help but imagine things that were likely not even there. Making monsters out of the shadows, hearing footsteps behind him instead of just the quiet rustle of wind.

But being outside had its peaceful moments as well. It was nice when the sun was out, when he could walk to a nearby park and settle on a bench, watching the Muggles go about their business. During these brief periods of relaxation, Harry could almost forget about the mess that waited for him in the magical world. The politics, the backlash—all of it was a low buzz in the back of his mind.

There was the sun and the sky and the trees and the grass. Nature and tranquility. Harry had never thought much about what living on his own would be like when he’d been at the Dursley’s, but what he liked best about doing so now was the freedom he had to set his own schedule. Kreacher didn’t mind if Harry sulked on his own for hours at a time, and he didn’t press when Harry had a need for space.

As someone who had been held down by responsibility and trauma his entire life, it was relieving to have the independence to handle things on his own. For as much as Harry loved his friends and appreciated their concern, there were times when everything became too much. Sometimes all he wanted was a good solid period of sitting outside by himself with nothing but the wind to disturb him.

Harry wrote letters to his friends and entertained a visit from Ron and Hermione. They spent the night, the three of them curled up on the floor of the living room, limbs touching, the room warm from the lingering heat of the fireplace. They breathed together, heartbeats slow, and Harry was reminded of how much he missed them, how much his heart ached when they were gone, despite the fact that it was for their own good.

He couldn’t dispel the shadows that hovered over him, or the demons that clung to his shoulders, or the press that hounded his doorstep. His presence was a bad omen wherever he went, and so it was better to have the distance, better to break himself free of the constant comfort they provided that he knew could not last forever. They would graduate soon, find jobs, raise families. They would rebuild, and he would still be here, caught between the past and the future, haunted by the things he had done and the things he should have.

But his friends reassured him he was doing the right thing with his article, that his efforts were appreciated and impactful, and Harry would have cried at this if he hadn’t long since taught himself out of it.

There had always been too many reasons to cry, most of them bad reasons, and so Harry had learned to close off the pain, to force back the burning in his eyes and the suffocating tightness in his throat. _Stoic,_ Hermione had once said, offering the dictionary definition. _Brave,_ Ron had added, because he had been raised in a family where it was okay to cry.

Privately, Harry thought he was being stupid more than anything else. Who would choose to numb themselves like this? If there was a way of working through his troubles, he didn’t know how to begin doing it.

* * *

At the end of the week, Luna wrote back with a final version of his article. A few tweaks had been made here and there, mostly for clarity’s sake, and then a few more grammar changes that either Hermione must have missed, or that Harry had added on after going through her initial corrections.

Harry wrote back with his approval, and the article ran the next day.

  
  


_THE CHOSEN ONE TELLS ALL: A CALL TO ACTION!_

  
  


No doubt people would once again accuse him of attention seeking and fear mongering, but Harry was past caring what his enemies said. If the truth did not convince people, he told himself, then there was nothing else he could do. He was not responsible for the direction of an entire nation, no matter how much he wanted things to change.

Harry sat around all morning, idle and apprehensive. He was waiting, perhaps idiotically, for responses to arrive. Luna had asked if he wanted the positive responses only, but Harry had told her that he wanted to see everything. If people had things to say to him, he would read them. Then he would at least understand what drove them to say and do the things they did.

If he didn’t like the letters he got, he would simply not respond to them. It would serve people right for sending him an angry letter, expecting him to retaliate, only to get nothing in response. Harry would write back to the positive letters and see if anyone was willing to help out, maybe start some kind of public campaign together. It would be much easier to do this if he had support, if it wasn’t only the word of an eighteen-year-old—who had once been painted as a liar—against a neverending tide of bigoted naysayers.

After lunch was done, Harry told Kreacher to leave him alone for a few hours unless called, and then he made the trek into the study room. It would be more productive to occupy himself with a task rather than get caught in the same thought loops over and over.

Opening the warded desk, Harry retrieved the book with Regulus Black’s notes. Looking could hardly make his mood any worse, he decided, though a small part of his head was telling him that this was a dumb, impulsive decision he would regret later.

It filled Harry with unease to read through the pages of notes—a sensation most similar to committing a minor act of misconduct, like sneaking out after curfew or nearly getting caught by Filch with contraband prank items.

As he referenced the book and looked over Regulus’ additions, Harry made thorough notes on the process of the ritual and the items that would be required. He could research each of the parts individually and see if a better solution could be found. Sometimes potions ingredients could be substituted if the magical properties were similar enough, so maybe it could be done with rituals as well.

Once his list was completed, Harry checked the time. It had only been an hour since he’d finished lunch.

Harry cast his mind for another task he could use to stay busy. He could start to research the items on his new list, but he had the suspicion that his focus, already reaching its limit for the day, would fail midway through such a task. Harry ran a hand through his hair, irritated at himself. If only it was as easy as shutting his brain off for a few hours. Maybe a hot shower would help settle his restlessness.

* * *

Following a shower, Harry did feel slightly better. Like he’d made some progress up the hill towards a good mood, and now even if something bad _were_ to happen, at least he had some wiggle room with which to navigate. Harry had also dressed in a fresh set of clothes in the hopes that said good mood would last.

As Harry made his way down the stairs, his eyes caught on the front entrance. If he left the house, then he wouldn’t be so tempted to check for responses. But then again, leaving the house came with its own unique set of problems.

Harry paused at the foot of the staircase, thinking. He didn’t have to go to places where there would be people, he reasoned. He could go and let off some steam, maybe go for a fly somewhere isolated. Like the edge of the Forbidden Forest, perhaps. Just outside of the Hogwarts wards and grounds, but close enough that he could take in the comforting view of the castle.

Decision made, Harry made for the closet to retrieve his Firebolt and a jacket. “Kreacher?” he called out. “I’m headed out!”

There was a pop as Kreacher appeared by the door, Harry’s cloak in his hands.

“I’ll be back for dinner, I think,” Harry said as he took the cloak and pulled it on. “But I’ll send my Patronus back here if anything changes, yeah?”

Kreacher nodded, then bowed his head. “Did Master wish for his letters to be waiting on the desk when he returns?”

“Erm.” Harry hadn’t thought that far ahead just yet. “Sure. Just leave them in the study, I guess.” It would be a poor idea to read them over supper and possibly spoil his appetite in the process.

Satisfied that he had taken all the necessary precautions to avoid disappointment and unnecessary anxiety, Harry grasped his broomstick firmly in hand and turned on the spot.

When he reappeared, it was a short distance away from Hogsmeade Village. Harry had chosen a destination that was familiar enough for him to picture properly, but was also far away enough for him to avoid running into anyone. The edge of the Forbidden Forest was a lengthy distance up ahead. Harry pulled the hood of his cloak up and mounted his broomstick.

Kicking off, Harry ascended. The rush of leaving the ground never got old. Feeling weightless, feeling _free._ The wind caressing his robes, face, and hair. His hood blew off almost immediately, flapping behind him. Harry made a grab for it, tugging it back, but the speed he wanted to go at was not conducive to leaving it on. He would just have to stop once he got closer and apply a temporary Sticking Charm.

As he flew on, his hands grew cold due to the wind chill. His Firebolt felt smooth and icy to the touch. Harry took his left hand off the handle, flexing the fingers. His gloves ought to be in his cloak pockets. After a moment’s struggle, he managed to fish them out and pull them on. The downside was that his hands were now stiffer than usual since they’d already succumbed to the chill.

Angling his broom back down, Harry lowered his altitude before picking up some more speed. There was less wind closer to the ground, and the trees would provide camouflage in a way that the bright grey skies could not.

Eventually, Harry found himself just up against the start of the forest. Nowhere near the Hogwarts grounds just yet, but Harry could now make out the large castle in more detail. His friends were in there somewhere. Hermione and Ron and Ginny and Neville, likely all studying for their upcoming winter exams.

Sometimes Harry regretted not going back with them. Hogwarts had always been home. A sanctuary from the Dursleys, a safe house far removed from the long summers he spent apart from the only people who cared about him. But there was also a sense of guilt deep in his gut, because Hogwarts had been violated again and again, mostly because of him, and though Harry had helped to repair what had been broken, helped to restore the castle to its former glory, he couldn’t quite believe that he belonged there anymore.

He was an adult now. It seemed foolish to consider a school as a home, no matter how near and dear Hogwarts was to him.

Harry landed a few paces from where the field ended and the trees began. There was no snow yet, and the sun was high in the sky. There was only the crisp, biting air and the copses of bare, leafless trees that signalled the beginnings of winter. 

His feet now on the ground, Harry walked into the forest. His heart thumped the beat of drums in his ears, and his breaths emerged noisy and uneven as they fogged the air. He knew why this was the case, but he didn’t want to think too hard about it.

Harry had traversed the forest before. With Hagrid, with his friends. He had also been here alone. There was a stone on the ground somewhere in this forest, probably nowhere near where he was at the moment, but somewhere nearby nonetheless. Though he had made a point of ignoring the location when dropping the stone, Harry was sure he would recognize the area he had been in if he was to stumble upon it now. Harry had seen his parents, Sirius, and Remus. He would never forget them.

Harry rubbed his knuckles against his chest, trying to ease the tightness there. He wasn’t here to think of those memories. He was here to distract himself.

So Harry continued onward, allowing the canopy of branches to swallow him up, drenching him in shadows. Eventually he had to lift his broom up to avoid catching the bristles on the greenery around him. To be honest, Harry wasn’t exactly sure what he was doing anymore. What had begun as a desire to feel better had rapidly dissolved into melancholy.

Maybe there were too many bad memories tied to being in forests. Encounters with giant spiders, for one. All those weeks spent with Ron and Hermione when they’d been on the run. And, of course, Harry’s confrontation with Voldemort.

Harry inhaled, unsteady. The earthy scents of the forest filled his nose and lungs. There were soft noises off to his left. Creatures, maybe. This whole place was vibrant and achingly real. Was this what it was, to be alive? To walk the earth and feel the cold air and smell the evergreens? Had everything been worth this?

The lives that had been saved were worth it, surely. But Harry’s own life had been dragged along for what felt like an age, and rest eluded him despite the era of peace that had been promised. Harry had fulfilled his purpose and defeated Voldemort, yet the general public remained unchanged.

It was too optimistic, he thought, to expect that the death of one villainous dictator would set an entire society to rights. 

There was still work to be done, only Harry was tired, and he wished dearly that there was someone else who would come to pat him on the back and tell him they would take control of things from here on out. Take the responsibility off of his shoulders.

However, there wasn’t anyone else, and there never had been. It was Harry and his friends and a handful of those he could count on as allies. But it was Harry’s duty, mainly, and it always had been his duty, because he wouldn’t leave his burden to anyone else if he could help it. Killing Voldemort had been his destiny, and so the burden of this aftermath must be his as well. The fame and wealth and power to change a nation.

Harry turned his gaze upwards. To the thick tangle of branches above him that obscured the light grey sky. He missed Sirius. His godfather had been the closest to a parental figure as Harry had ever had, and now Harry only had an empty house to show for it. A house that they could have lived in together, if Sirius had survived.

But no, Harry thought. Sirius hated Grimmauld Place. So they would have sold it. They would have bought a new place and lived there instead. In the countryside, or in a small wizarding village like Ottery St. Catchpole. Just the two of them. Family.

Harry kicked at a tree root, suddenly angry. So many good things in his life had been taken away. Sirius hadn’t deserved to die because of him. And even now, there seemed to be little that Harry could do to fix his current problems. Writing an article was not enough. It wouldn’t be enough. But Harry had no idea what he ought to be doing instead. If not with words, if not with public appearances and hand shaking, then what? What could he do? He hated feeling helpless more than he hated anything else. 

Harry knew there had to be a proper answer. He lacked the vision to see it through, lacked the experience to carve out the path to inciting the changes he wanted. If only magic could help him figure that out as well, he mourned. But there had always been things that magic could not repair, could not touch, could not go near.

Turning his focus outwards, Harry scanned the forest around him. No one here to see him. No watchful eyes, no invasive reporters.

His holly wand had made its way into his hand, his magic crawling across his skin and up his arm. _Release,_ it seemed to whisper.

So Harry let it happen.

Let his magic swirl and build, let the simmer rise to a boil. Felt his chest expand, pressing against his ribs, lungs full of air, and then the _rush._ Not unlike the first time he’d ever held a wand, his magic finally settling into its proper channel, that untapped potential at last unlocking inside of him, spilling out and over, flowing into the wand and releasing in a fit of light and splendour.

A tree to his left snapped clean in half, toppling over, disturbing all its neighbours as it landed on the floor, a cloud of dirt and rotten leaves expanding from it in all directions. A tinge of regret filled Harry at the loss, followed by the sharp worry of someone seeing, of someone coming to investigate the disturbance.

Harry lashed out again, and another tree fell, cracking and splintering. He no longer needed his wand for such things, but it felt good to direct it, to aim the weapon and see the impact it had.

Point. _Snap._ Point. _Crunch._

Eventually, Harry found himself, weary and panting, in a clearing of his own making. Sweat clung along his hairline, slipping down the sides of his face and underneath his shirt collar. His broomstick lay at his feet; he must have set it down at some point.

This was too much. As he took in the destruction he had wrought, the power he had unleashed, he felt sick. He would have to come back at a later date to heal the wounds, to replant the trees. Years of toiling away in Petunia’s gardens and, later on at Hogwarts, time spent studying in Herbology ought to suffice for this.

Harry closed his eyes, inhaled again. The distinct smell of burning filled his senses. Ashes and ashes. He must have slaughtered over a dozen trees in his stupor, which did not even account for the rest of the greenery—the bushes and the lesser plants that had been squashed underfoot.

With a shudder, Harry wandlessly summoned his broomstick to his hand. He needed to get home. He needed to get back to Kreacher, back to the real world problems that existed outside of his head.

Turning on the spot, Harry vanished, leaving the air behind him colder than before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i had a really rough time writing this chapter. as a result, it sat idly for a while and some passages underwent rewrites.
> 
> i just want to reiterate that this story is isn't high up on my priority list at the moment. this is because i want to finish more of my 'not a good man, but a great one' series before i give this story (which i mentally rank at the a similar level of detail and plotting) more attention.
> 
> tl;dr: i am still attempting to update this regularly, but don't be surprised if it goes a month or so with nothing *sweats*
> 
> new russian translation available [here](https://ficbook.net/readfic/8994475) by [Что-то_среднее](https://ficbook.net/authors/1853626)!
> 
> thanks for reading, would appreciate hearing any thoughts!


	7. Potter's Army

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Now that his article has been published, Harry finds he wants to do more. Luckily, Hermione already has a plan ready to go: a public protest in Diagon Alley.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> previously:
> 
> After his visit with Luna, Harry gets caught up in feelings of restlessness. He takes to wandering outside on his own to de-stress. The day his article is published, he heads to Hogwarts to fly around. Harry ends up at the Forbidden Forest, which brings up old memories. Harry grows pensive and angry, then takes his frustrations out on the local flora.

Harry was greeted with a stack of letters on his dining table when he returned to Grimmauld Place. He shoved them aside for the time being, choosing instead to focus on the roasted chicken that Kreacher had prepared for dinner.

What Harry needed was focus. A clear head to help him make the right choices. Regular meals to keep himself healthy, and a normal sleep schedule, even one that was plagued by nightmares.

So Harry took his time with dinner, savouring the taste of the food and washing it down with a glass of cold water. Then, once the food was gone and his plate was swept away by Kreacher’s capable hands, Harry turned to the pile of letters.

He could do this. He could accept whatever the answers were because knowing was better than not knowing. Regardless of the response, he would move on from this with a solid foundation to build upon.

Reaching for the first envelope, Harry began to read.

And read, and read, and read.

Some of the letters he threw out right away. Gibberish and crude remarks against his reputation and his heritage—words that only made him angry.

But there were letters that he paid close attention to. People who were afraid. Angry like him, only they didn’t know what to do. Harry’s heart thumped painfully upon reading these letters because it was obvious that a lot of these people looked up to him and were hoping that he would do something.

He was the Chosen One, the Boy-Who-Lived, the one who had defeated Voldemort, and if anyone was to set the world to rights it would be him, nevermind that he was barely an adult and had never gone a year in his life without some kind of major trauma.

It was his job to fix this because no one else was going to do it.

If only Harry could remove all those broken parts of himself and be able to function properly, be able to sleep through the night without echoes of death and war and failure. Then maybe he could be the saviour that they needed, instead of having to cobble together an approximation of the person he ought to be.

Harry set aside the pile of positive letters. Ron and Hermione were supposed to stop by tomorrow. He would share the results of his article with them, and maybe they would have some ideas on how to proceed.

As the evening passed on, Harry even worked up the courage to head to bed early, and though his sleep was as fitful as ever, it wasn’t terrible enough that he remembered the nightmares in the morning. Perhaps things were looking up.

* * *

Hermione had a plan. A plan that had apparently been in the works for a while. Somehow, she was only now bringing it to their attention. A stack of papers was laid out with a ‘thump’ upon the table, and Harry could not say that he was surprised by any of it.

What Hermione wanted to do was hold a public protest.

“A protest?” Ron repeated. “What would that look like?”

Harry’s experience with protests involved Uncle Vernon cursing about ungrateful youth who were on the telly. Large picket signs and angry faces. Did those sorts of things actually work? Would they work in a magical world? Hermione seemed to think so. She had asked her old Muggle school teachers to find and mail articles to her. Testimonials of Muggle activists from all over the globe on what protests were and why they were important.

“Would we have it at the Ministry?” Harry asked.

“We can’t hold it in front of the Ministry,” Hermione said primly. “Because the entrance is hidden away and there will be Muggles in the area. I chose Diagon Alley because it really is the hub of all major magical foot traffic here in Great Britain. I think it will have the most impact there. Especially if you were to attend, Harry.”

“Sounds a bit dangerous,” Ron said, but he sounded more eager than anything. “What if someone, I dunno, the Ministry or the Death Eaters come to try and break it up?”

“Then we’ll be prepared,” Hermione said. “I’ve made up some contingency plans—”

In a way, Harry was glad that Hermione’s resilient moral compass and impeccable diligence had laid out a clear way forward. His strength was not planning and it never would be. Harry liked to think his strengths lay in quick-thinking and decent spellcasting. He was good in a scrape, could pull himself out of bad situations without dying. That was the extent of what his childhood had taught him.

Hermione continued on, listing names of people who were willing to help, many of them old DA or Order members, and other things such as assigned groups and tasks. Ron interjected here and there, making suggestions on how to improve the layouts, and Harry provided a few words of encouragement, adding his input when it felt necessary.

“A public rebuttal will work the best,” Hermione said, once they were done for the day. “That way everyone can see your words have public backing, Harry. That there are people who do believe in you, regardless of what the corrupt newspapers say. I still cannot believe that anyone is reading the garbage that the Prophet puts out. Did they not learn anything at all from the war?”

“I suppose not,” Harry said. “But I’m not really surprised.”

Ron clapped him on the back. “Not everyone can be sensible. But I’m sure Hermione’s plan will work, mate. Muggles do this all the time, don’t they? And it works.”

It ended up on the telly, at any rate. Harry wasn’t actually sure if it worked or not, though he figured it didn’t hurt to try it. “Yeah,” Harry said. “I’ve got a good feeling about it.”

His friends smiled at him, reassured, and Harry smiled back. They would never think he was crazy or attention-seeking. That was what he needed to remember. That was what was most important.

* * *

The rest of Harry’s week was a blur of parchment and Floo calls. Hermione’s insane level of organization enabled them to pull together for their first scheduled protest on Saturday morning.

Students who were of age would be permitted to use the Floo in Headmistress McGonagall’s office to arrive in Diagon Alley. Everyone else would arrive in scheduled groupings, or through the use of Portkeys and/or Apparition so as to not overwhelm the Floo system.

As the plan came together, Harry had grown more enthused about the entire deal. While writing his article had been a nice boost to his morale, it was not the same as actually going out and _doing_ something. A protest would be a statement made, a point shoved in the face of every remaining bigot leftover from Voldemort’s reign. This protest would have meaning, even if the Ministry did not listen to them.

Both Ron and Hermione had helped him rework parts of his article into a speech, and though Harry loathed public speaking, he was willing to give it a go if it would help encourage others to act.

Harry’s eyes roamed over the register of names Hermione had collected. The last time they had done this, it had been the inception of Dumbledore’s Army in their fifth year. Looking at this new list, at these new names, it occurred to him just what this new roster reflected—

This was what Umbridge would have called ‘Potter’s Army’.

Because while Hermione had systematically arranged the logistics of this protest, while Ron had organized the teams and mapped the escape plans, people would be attending for _him._

For Harry Potter, the man who had defeated Voldemort. 

They were following him from the smoldering ruins of war and into the uncertain waters of politics. It was times like this when Harry felt, quite keenly, each moment of terror he had ever endured. Battling against fear was an experience he held in spades. Battling against people’s opinions had never gone well for him.

He was not an orator and he was not a politician. His speeches emerged awkward and clunky, tempered with self-depreciation and a distinct lack of sophisticated vocabulary. He didn’t have the patience to correct bigotted people who couldn’t be bothered to use common sense.

All of that pretty much summed up why _leading_ a protest was, and never would be, his forte.

Therefore, Harry had two simple goals for this protest:

To say his piece in public without making a fool of himself, and to reconnect with the people who truly mattered in his life.

Beyond that, it was anyone’s guess as to what would happen. Harry would have to satisfy himself with those two goals. Hoping for more was asking for disappointment.

While Harry wanted to believe this protest could make a difference, he was not about to delude himself into thinking that centuries of backwards thinking could be corrected over a weekend. This would be a start, a ball set rolling, and hopefully it would pick up enough traction to carry them to a better world.

* * *

On Saturday morning, Harry was wearing what Ron and Hermione had deemed a ‘moderate’ set of dress robes. Not too steeped in tradition, but also not too similar to Muggle styles. A happy middle ground that would hopefully appeal to all sides of the situation.

While Harry was aware that appearances were important, he still didn’t really understand _why._ Surely as long as he was well-dressed, it didn’t matter exactly what he was wearing?

“Everything will be fine, Hermione,” Ron said. “You’re worrying too much again. All of your organizing is perfect.”

Hermione huffed and crossed her arms, pausing in her slow pace of the room. “We haven’t done anything on a scale this large before. And before you say anything,” she added in a loud voice as Ron opened his mouth to speak, “the restoration of Hogwarts was overseen by Headmistress McGonagall. This is entirely different!”

Harry wasn’t in the mood to placate Hermione’s anxiety, not when his own was running rampant. He knew why he had agreed to do this, but, fuck, _why_ had he agreed to do this? He was going to make an arse of himself in the middle of Diagon Alley.

“Everything will be fine,” Ron repeated sternly. “And I’m saying this to _both_ of you. That includes you, Harry, you berk. You’re going to be great today. If anyone tries to heckle you, I’ll jinx them on their arse.”

“You won’t, though,” Hermione said, “because that won’t solve anything! We are staging a _peaceful_ protest—”

“Merlin, Hermione, I know that. Just let me try and smack some sense into Harry first, then I can start in on you next—”

Harry’s lips quirked into a reluctant grin as his friends continued to bicker. Alright, maybe Ron wasn’t too far off. Everything would be fine in the end.

* * *

When they arrived in Diagon Alley, they were greeted by a small crowd of perhaps a dozen people. Familiar faces, mostly. Neville came over to greet them right away, and it was awkward at first—they hadn’t met in person since Harry had left Hogwarts.

Hermione was in her element now, handing out signs to the protestors and directing people into groups. The sight of it was familiar. Not because of the environment, but because of the actions involved. Harry could recall with clarity, their fifth year at Hogwarts, when Hermione had taken down a different list of names and handed out fake Galleons instead of pamphlets and maps.

This was not the first time they had organized against a higher power, Harry realized. But this was certainly the _largest_ gathering they’d ever had.

More people Apparated in while Harry caught up with his friends. It should not have been surprising that people were committed to this cause—DA members especially.

Harry had been worried he would have nothing to do while Ron and Hermione handled most of the protestors, but this ended up being far from the case. People came for him, to see him, to talk to him. All of Harry’s time was taken up with conversation. 

Why they were here, why it was necessary. Why they were glad he was taking a stand on such a vital issue.

No one seemed to question why he was the figurehead for this. No one questioned why Hermione was bossing people about, or why Ron was touching base with the other protest leaders as he made his way around the group.

This was what they had always done, would always do. As McGonagall had once said to them—

_Why is it when something happens, it is always you three?_

As Harry soaked in the early morning sun and gazed around as his fellow protestors, he thought that he knew the answer to that. There was no one else he trusted to do this, no one else who had seen him through the worst and best parts of his life. When it came to that final, dire hour, Ron and Hermione were the people Harry would choose to walk into hell with.

“Harry, over here!”

Ginny was waving him over. Harry went to her, glad for the distraction. The area was crowded now; Harry had to twist and turn his body to push by.

When he finally got through, he saw who Ginny had been talking to.

“Kingsley?” 

Harry had never seen Kingsley in anything other than wizard’s robes. Or, at least, if he _had,_ it wasn’t notable enough for him to remember it. But here, now, Kingsley had shed his usual style of dress in favour of something infinitely more casual. Dark wash Muggle jeans and a plain grey button-down shirt. If not for the Kingsley’s height—and his generally regal nature—Harry was sure that he might not have noticed the man at all.

“Harry,” greeted Kingsley, his voice as deep a rumble as ever. “It’s good to see you.”

“Good to see you.” Harry shook hands with him, but there was something tugging incessantly at the back of his mind. “Are you here for the protest? Hermione never mentioned you’d be coming by.”

“I’m afraid I’m not here for the protest, Harry.” To punctuate this statement, Kingsley cast his eyes out at the crowd. The crowd that stirred with a restless energy Harry felt deep in the marrow of his bones. “I wanted a word, if you don’t mind.”

“Sure.”

They walked off to the side, to the opening of an alleyway. Harry had his hands stuffed into his pockets, his fingers brushing against the handle of his wand. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust Kingsley. It was that he didn’t trust that they were both in a public space.

Kingsley’s own wand slid into his hand. It was a subtle motion Harry nearly missed—he only noticed at all because of years spent practicing _constant vigilance._

“Let me cast a few spells,” said Kingsley, and Harry nodded agreement.

Magic washed over them. Harry recognized two-thirds of the spells. Some of them he knew by heart, some of them he had learned over the past six months. The ones he didn’t recognize, he made a mental note to ask about or look up later.

“So what did you want to talk about?” Harry was aware of the tight schedule they are on; that if he went missing for too long, his friends would come looking for him.

“I see what you are doing here, Harry, and I support the cause. I support your message and what you’re trying to accomplish.”

Harry could hear the ‘but’ that was coming. The clause that would somehow negate everything they had done, everything they planned to do. Still, Harry had always respected Kingsley as an Auror, as a member of the Order. He would let the man speak his piece.

“But I need to stop?” Harry asked, and somehow he could not hold the bitter twist to his tone. He was sure his expression was faring no better—he had always been a terrible liar when it came to things like this.

Kingsley’s gaze was hard. “But you need to watch yourself. The war may be over, but there are still those out there who would love to topple you in the eyes of the public.”

As if they weren’t already doing that. As if Harry didn’t have to stare down a new headline every week and try to make sense of it. This was what had driven Harry mad in his fifth year. People saying that none of it mattered, that the articles were just words. Adults acting as though he was making a big fuss about nothing. 

Harry _knew_ he wasn’t just a whiny teenage brat. Regardless of whatever any adult told him, he knew he was right. Public opinion _mattered._ Back then, people had needed to be convinced that Voldemort was back. Harry had seen what had become of people who had failed to heed that warning, and he never wanted that to happen ever again.

“Wouldn’t be the first time they tried to do that to me,” Harry said. “I’d be surprised if it was the last.”

Kingsley frowned. His brows pinched together, forming a small crease between. “You’ve worked hard for this peace, Harry. There are more problems that need solving, but believe me when I say that it will come with time.”

Harry fought the urge to laugh. “You say that like we haven’t just gotten out of a war. You say that like there aren’t still Death Eaters out there, biding their time! The time to do something is _now.”_

“For others, perhaps,” said Kingsley. He was maddeningly calm for someone who had just been yelled at. “But for you? You’ve got a target on your back that spans all of England. People are watching you, yes, but not all of them are on your side.”

“I’ve been doing fuck all for _months_ and they’re still having goes at me,” Harry said flatly. “So pardon me if I don’t really think it matters what I do, public or not.”

Kingsley shook his head, sighed in the way that Harry had heard one too many adults do when they thought he was being obstinate. “I’m advising caution, not stagnation,” Kingsley said. “I think you need to be careful, which is something we both ought to be able to agree on. The Ministry will be kept in check by the public for some time. There isn’t a need for widespread panic. If we keep our calm, we can accomplish things through the right channels.”

Kingsley was a Pureblood. This was what Harry had to remind himself. Kingsley had grown up in a magical world that was isolated from the progressive nature of the Muggle world. After days spent learning about activism from Hermione and planning today’s protest, Harry was more convinced than ever that if they left the future of this society to the ‘adults’, to the supposed authority figures in charge of keeping them all safe, they would only end up back where they had been a year ago.

“I’ll take your concerns under advisement,” Harry said, as neutrally as he could manage. “But I’m not about to change my mind.”

“Then it appears we have nothing more to say to each other for the time being.”

Harry cocked his head towards the exit. “Yeah, seems like I should be getting back soon, anyways. Thanks for coming.”

Kingsley took the hint and dismantled all the protective spells he had layered over the area. Harry waved once, then turned his back and walked back out into Diagon Alley. When he heard the faint ‘pop’ of Apparition behind him, he did not so much as flinch. There were scarier things waiting for him in the waking world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter is dedicated as a belated birthday gift to Silverfox579, who you can thank for spurring me to finish this.
> 
> thank you to all who are following this story. i am still continuing it, and i want to do it justice. comments are always appreciated to help nudge me along <33


	8. A Good Leader

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Golden Trio's protest goes off without a hitch. Afterwards, Harry reconnects with Neville and resumes his work on dismantling the process for the House-Elf ritual.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> previously:
> 
> Harry reads through responses to his article and finds that he wants to do more. Luckily, Hermione already has a plan ready to go: a public protest in Diagon Alley. During the planning process, Harry reflects on Dumbledore's Army and how 'Potter's Army' is more of a reality now than ever. At the protest, Harry runs into Kingsley, who warns Harry against acting too rebellious in public.

The protest went off without a hitch. They started at one end of Diagon and ended up near the front of Gringotts, chanting and waving their signs all the while. Harry let himself blend into the crowd, knowing that once this part of today was done, he would be expected to make his grand speech.

Regular patrons of the alley watched the commotion with wary eyes. Thankfully, no one got into any fights; the occupants of Diagon Alley seemed content to skirt around the crowd of protesters that was slowly making its way past the shops.

When it was all settled, Hermione took the podium first, shuffling the notecards that contained her opening remarks. She didn’t need them. Harry knew she had every word memorized to perfection, but having them in her hands helped to steady her. Her blouse was neatly-pressed, her hair done in a neat twist that was pinned in place by a pencil. A Muggle pencil, to make a statement.

Hermione’s voice rang high and clear over the crowd thanks to the help of an Amplifying Charm. Harry had heard her speech enough times that he, too, could recite it by memory. He was waiting for his cue to take her place. To distract himself, he cast a quick glance around. Other people—non protesters—were hovering around the edges. Civilians, mostly.

_“Our keynote speaker does not require much of an introduction, but I’ll give him one anyways.”_

Harry could hear the titter of laughter that washed over the crowd. Was that Seamus there, towards the left side, whooping in agreement? They had spent six years together in Gryffindor tower. Harry felt he ought to be able to pick that voice out even in a group as large as this one.

_“I have known Harry Potter since I was eleven years old. He is one of the bravest, strongest people I know, and he has saved my life more times than I care to count. ”_

That was downplaying it, honestly. Hermione had saved him just as many times over; Harry trusted her with his life. Though, thinking back to their first year, he recalled how he and Ron had saved her from the mountain troll. They’d been so young then, so determined to do what was right. That moment had shaped them into the people they were today.

_“Time and time again, Harry has demonstrated that he is willing to take a stand against injustice, against the bigoted and the corrupt. If there is anyone who has shown themselves as a great leader in a time of need, it’s Harry.”_

Harry would never be comfortable hearing others singing his praises. The chorus in his mind was loud and unending—he wasn’t what they said he was, he was an imposter, he was only doing what any common person could have done. There was nothing special about him save for a prophecy and a cold, dead Horcrux scar.

_“And right now, magical Britain needs a good leader more than ever.”_

A good leader. Harry didn’t think himself fit to fill that title. There was too much of himself scattered to the ruins of his past. He had never wanted to bear the responsibility of the world he had been thrust into at the age of eleven. He had taken the weight because it was safer for him to bear it. It was better to know that when the end came, he would welcome it and no one else would need to lose anyone else. No one else would need to suffer.

_“So without further ado, I introduce to you my best friend, the man who defeated Voldemort: Harry Potter.”_

Harry could see, rolling out in his mind’s eye, the opening lines he had prepared for today. All he had to do was say what he’d come to say. Why was it suddenly so daunting? Just this morning he’d been so hopeful. Something about the crowd and the open public space was unsettling him. Something about the loud cheers of applause that he did not feel he deserved was throwing him off.

“Harry, mate, you’re on.”

That was Ron touching his shoulder, concern on his face. Harry shook himself and smiled. “Thanks.”

Ron’s gaze was steady, calm, deep blue. “You’ve got this.” The words were simple, but the care in them, the faith that had held their friendship strong for so many years, was enough.

Harry rested his fingertips on Ron’s forearm for a moment, drawing strength from the warmth and muscle that rested under the thick woolen jumper. He didn’t have the words to convey his gratefulness, but Ron smiled, and Harry thought that his feelings were understood.

With that settled, Harry straightened his shoulders and moved to approach the podium.

* * *

“Harry! Harry, that was amazing. You did so well—”

“Thanks.” His face hurt from smiling all day, but he wasn’t about to complain. Harry let Ginny and Neville pull him aside to greet more people, to shake a few more hands. Soon it would be over, he told himself. Soon he would be home with Kreacher in Grimmauld Place, eating a kidney pie and having treacle tart for dessert.

By the time the crowd finally thinned out, Harry was exhausted and wanted to leave, but he couldn’t do that to Ron and Hermione. So he waited with Neville while Ron and Hermione thanked the last of their protesters for coming.

“Did I thank you for coming?” Harry asked suddenly, feeling like an idiot as he turned to face Neville.

“You didn’t,” Neville said, wry, “but if it helps, I didn’t come just for you, Harry.”

Harry barked a laugh. “Thanks, Neville. That’s a great help, honestly.”

“Any time,” Neville said, cuffing Harry on the shoulder. “Always available to knock you down a peg.”

“Any thoughts, by the way?” Harry asked. “On today. I’d love to know what you think about all this.”

“It’s good stuff. Really stick it to Burke, you know? He boasts about being the popular vote when we all know that’s not really the case. A public rally like this will show people that’s not true.” Neville nodded grimly at where Ron was engaged in conversation with one of Diagon’s shopkeepers.

“Yeah, that’s what we’re hoping for. Even if this doesn’t get the Ministry to change anything, it will get people to sit up and notice. Get their heads out of their arses, as Ron says.”

“For sure,” Neville agreed. “It shows the Ministry we’re not afraid to start up again if they try to push us down. We had enough of this for _years,_ for all that time Voldemort was back and they didn’t believe you.”

“You believed me.”

Neville cracked a grin. “Well, we can’t all be as great as me.”

Another snort bubbled up, but Harry shoved it down, thinking it would probably make him look crazy to the remaining bystanders.

“In all honesty though, Harry, watch your back, yeah? There were a few Aurors hanging about the edges, I dunno if you noticed.”

“Yeah.” Harry stuffed his hands into his pockets, then pulled them back out hurriedly. Hermione had told him not to do that in case people were taking photographs of him. “I mean, people do that anyways. Follow me around.”

“Different now,” Neville warned. “You’ve gone out of your way to yell at them. They’ll be watching you more carefully now, looking for any excuse to run you into the mud.”

Harry sighed. “I’ll take it under advisement, thanks.”

Neville sighed as well. “Sorry. I don’t mean to put a damper on it. Today was fantastic, so let’s leave it at that.”

Harry nodded. “You know,” he said, scrubbing a tired hand through his hair, “I can’t wait to get home, not think about anything, and sleep for about twelve hours.”

“You deserve it,” Neville said solemnly. “Seriously. Take a good breather after this, yeah? Knock back some Firewhiskey, Transfigure your old Potions textbooks into a footstool.”

Harry couldn’t help his snort this time. “Bloody hell, Neville.”

“Am I wrong?”

He was not wrong. Harry could already imagine a great night with the friendly buzz of alcohol as his companion. He’d not drunk much since the end of the war save for a few social nights, but the idea of a lonesome indulgence suddenly seemed like a fantastic idea.

“I think I might do that, actually.” Harry gave Neville’s shoulder a shove. “Thanks.”

“You did something really good today. No matter what other people say, I want you to know that. I looked up to you for ages, Harry, and that’s because you’ve never been afraid to do what was right, regardless of who was watching.”

Harry felt a bit choked up hearing that, if he was being honest. “Jeez, Neville. Maybe you want to come by for a drink, if you’re gonna keep going on like that?”

Neville raised a brow at him, a mischievous expression stealing across his face. “People might get the wrong idea.”

“Oh, fuck off,” Harry said, laughing. “That’s the least of my worries.”

* * *

The next morning, Harry felt more refreshed than he had been in weeks. Neville had stayed for a few hours before heading back to Hogwarts for the night, citing an early morning meeting with Professor Sprout. Harry had forgotten how much he liked Neville. Letters were not the same as talking in person; something he ought to try to keep in mind. 

Harry had even shown Neville the list of ingredients he had compiled regarding Regulus’ research. Of course, he hadn’t said exactly what the ingredients were for; he’d only wanted to ask Neville’s opinions on them. Some of the ingredients he was familiar with, which meant it was only a matter of digging back through his old potions books and reminding himself of their properties.

For others, though, it would require books that he did not have. Lucky for him, Neville had known where most of the plant-related ingredients could be found. He had scrawled out a list of book titles for Harry to look over the next day.

Once Neville had left, the combination of the day’s exhaustion coupled with the weight of alcohol in his system had seen Harry tumbling into a deep, dreamless sleep. The best sleep he’d had in ages, really.

His good mood was such that even Kreacher took note, asking if Harry wanted extra helpings of breakfast food, asking if Harry wanted dessert with lunch. Harry said yes to all of it. For once, he was more than happy to indulge and give the elf extra opportunities for fulfillment. It was rather incredible what one day’s worth of progress could do; Harry felt great from all the encouragement he’d gotten.

After breakfast, he went back upstairs to the study, where he continued his research on the ingredients required for the House-Elf ritual. 

He could owl-order the books as he had once considered doing, but that came with its own risks. While the wards would protect him from mail that contained harmful potions and magic, it did not mean his mail could not be intercepted. Given the amount of public spotlight on him recently, he would not be surprised if people were watching the area to see what mail he did receive.

So perhaps another trip to Diagon Alley would be necessary. Otherwise he would have to ask someone else to purchase the books for him—however, that would lead to unwanted questions. He did trust his friends, but this was just another thing that they could potentially lecture him about.

His public image was struggling enough without rumours about dark books being delivered to his house. Even if they were only potions books, Harry didn’t doubt someone would find a way to twist it, somehow.

Partway through his morning, Kreacher came upstairs with a tea tray. Harry sipped at his drink and mulled over his problem. There was still some time to go before his arranged meeting with a mysterious stranger. Maybe he ought to be looking into that?

The letter he’d gotten had not given him much information to go off of. Not to mention the fact that he’d vanished the envelope it had come in. Which, in retrospect, seemed to be a pretty stupid thing for him to have done. Now it was just another piece of irrecoverable evidence.

Harry reached for his mokeskin pouch and summoned the letter card out of it. Plain vanilla cardstock, the kind one could find in any Muggle or magical stationery shop. The handwriting was elegant and unfamiliar. It resembled, most closely, the script of Harry’s professors at Hogwarts. 

If there _were_ enemies out there, waiting for them, he would greet them unafraid.

Harry absentmindedly fingered the edge of the card. He was not afraid. He should not care what people thought about him. If he wanted to go to Diagon Alley and buy some books, then he was well within his rights to do so. He had been so caught up in avoiding the spotlight he had grown up in that he’d never considered the opposite: going about his business and not caring. He was not doing anything wrong. There was no reason for him to hide.

Harry was uncomfortable with the excessive attention, sure, but the attention was not going away any time soon. His article and his appearance at the protest would only add kindling to the fire. So really, if he wanted to leave his house, then he ought to do it.

While he was at it, he’d get Kreacher to fetch him Sirius’ old cloak. Headmistress McGonagall had owled it back to him the morning of the protest, and he hadn’t gotten a chance to look at it properly since. 

According to her, it was a perfectly serviceable cloak with built-in Shield Charms and other protective spells. She’d enclosed a list of the features and their functions as well, which he’d skimmed over. The list was exhaustive and almost frightening in its capacity. If this was the standard for Pureblood heirlooms, no wonder Mundungus had attempted to ransack this place.

* * *

Diagon Alley was busier on a Sunday afternoon. Harry was able to blend in with the crowd by keeping his head down. There were mothers with small children, people his age slouching around on errands, and some elderly people chattering outside one of the tea shops. Overall, a regular mix of citizens going about their usual day. Those few people that did notice him seemed content to gawk from a distance. 

Still, the strange sensation of being _watched_ remained a constant concern in the back of Harry’s mind. He was as restless and uneasy as he had been when leaving Luna’s house. As he walked, Kingsley’s warnings echoed in his head. There was a target on his back. The Ministry was likely monitoring his movements.

Harry cast a glance around, scoping out his surroundings. It was too difficult to tell, given the crowd. If anyone was watching him, reporter or not, he would not be able to spot them until they made their move.

Much to his surprise, Harry managed to enter Flourish and Blotts without any harassment. The shop workers were busy with other customers, meaning Harry could browse without fear of interruption. After looking through the sections dedicated to potions and herbology, Harry found nearly all the books Neville had told him to look for and then some. Hermione would be proud, he thought fondly.

That thought, however, reminded him of his current wrongdoing. Well, perhaps wrongdoing wasn’t quite the word for it. Harry had yet to do anything, after all. He was researching, satisfying his curiosity, and if he found a solution that could help Kreacher without invoking dark magic, then he would gladly share that with Hermione. And with his other friends.

_But what if we don’t?_ questioned a voice in his head. _What if we can’t find a way to do it without dark magic?_

Harry shoved that voice down into a box and locked it. He would deal with that when the time came. _If_ the time came.

When he was finished browsing, he carried his purchases to the counter. The same girl was there, eyes widened in surprise upon seeing him. Harry smiled blandly and gestured at his pile of books. He could take some small amount of satisfaction from the guilty look in her eyes.

“Would you like these gift-wrapped?” she asked nervously. “Free of charge for you, Mr. Potter.”

Harry had no good will to spare her. If she had sold him out to the press, then she would have to live with that. “Just regular packaging is fine.”

“Yes. O-of course.” Her gaze dropped to the register as she read out the total.

Harry paid in full, then waited as his books were wrapped up with magic. He thanked her for her time and left without looking back.

Once outside, Harry inhaled the fresh air and took in the sight of the busy street. There were less people; Harry could now make out most of the store fronts in full. So clear was the view, in fact, that Harry could note each individual person in the alley. His eyes mapped them out, recording details about clothing and facial features.

Doing this made him feel more secure, and so he decided he would walk around a bit more before heading back to Grimmauld Place. It had been over two years since he’d wandered this place properly.

In the distance, the building that housed the Daily Prophet’s main office was highly visible. Ugly place, honestly. The front of it was a pale off-purple colour with two mid-sized frosted glass windows built in. Harry resisted the urge to move closer to examine it and instead continued over to the other half of the alley.

The only other shop in Diagon Alley that sold academic books was the second-hand shop. Harry had not considered going there originally to purchase books because he could afford new ones, but now that he had expanded his horizons to potions ingredients, buying more obscure books was probably a smart idea.

Even better, the second-hand shop was in a less populated area of Diagon, meaning it was, hopefully, less likely he would be recognized. Or perhaps that was wishful thinking and the thinned crowd meant he would be spotted more easily.

Harry made the decision and altered his path. As he did so, his eyes caught on a figure standing a ways off in an alley, but he forced his line of sight to keep on moving so as not to draw attention to himself. His trip inside the bookstore was quick; after a short conversation with the sales clerk, Harry gathered up three new books in short order and paid for them.

When he emerged, the figure in the alley had moved in front of a shop and was gazing absently through the glass at a display of gently-used trunks. It was a wizard dressed in plain navy robes, his form on the skinnier side, a mop of dark brown hair slicked back from his forehead.

Not a Death Eater that Harry recognized, but this bloke could be using Polyjuice, too. Though it was debatable if there were any Death Eaters left loose in Britain who were capable of brewing such a complex potion, Harry would not have put it past them to have found a way to acquire some.

Still, Harry couldn’t help but think of what Kingsley had said. Perhaps it had been naive of him to only look for Death Eaters. At this point, the Ministry was once again his enemy. It would not be surprising to him if there were Aurors tracking his every move, waiting for confirmation of an inclination towards dark magic.

If this wizard was a Death Eater, then he would have attacked already. There was no reason to hesitate. They were standing in a vaguely deserted part of Diagon Alley, and Harry was here alone, his arms laden with books.

The more he thought about it, the more certain he was that this wizard was a Ministry employee. Not that either group—Ministry workers or Death Eaters—were particularly competent in Harry’s eyes, but dark magic left its traces.

As the man continued to linger, Harry got more annoyed. When he had tried to live a quiet, peaceful life, they had not left him alone. Now that he was _actively_ protesting against the Ministry, he was pretty much guaranteed even less privacy than before. He had forgotten how much Hogwarts had shielded him from the public. No wonder he preferred sulking in Grimmauld Place nowadays.

He had never been one to get angry on his own behalf; his entire fifth year at Hogwarts was a testimony to that. What he did with his suffering was his own business, and that business was channeling it into productive actions. Just like with Dumbledore’s Army. Just like with the protest. Harry was no stranger to working against authority. If that was what it took, so be it. If the goddamn Ministry wanted a rise out of him, they would get it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> another chapter woooooo. we are slowly plowing along with this story. thanks for sticking with it!

**Author's Note:**

> find me & my writing updates on tumblr [here](https://duplicitywrites.tumblr.com)!
> 
> feel free to join my personal discord server for my writing [here](https://discord.gg/BJRP4A5)!


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